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ON  LOVE 


STENDHAL 

(HENRY  BEYLE) 

ON  LOVE 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 
BY 

PHILIP  SIDNEY  WOOLF 

AND 

CECIL  N.  SIDNEY  WOOLF,  M.A. 

FELLOW  OF  TRINITY  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE 


That  you  should  be  made  a fool  of  by  a young  woman, 
why,  it  is  many  an  honest  man’s  case. 

The  l'irute. 


NEW  YORK 

BRENTANO’S 


TO  B.  K. 

FOR  WHOM 
THE  TRANSLATION 
WAS  BEGUN 


First  Published  IQ15 

Reprinted  1920 


Printed  in  Great  Britain  at 

The  Mayflower  Press , Plymouth.  William  Brendon  & Son,  l.td. 


Dsns 

\C\\^ 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE  TO  THE 
TRANSLATION 

STENDHAL’S  three  prefaces  to  this  work  on  Love 
are  not  an  encouraging  opening.  Their  main  theme 
is  the  utter  incomprehensibility  of  the  book  to  all  but 
a very  select  few — “ a hundred  readers  only  ” : they  are 
rather_warnings  than  introductions.  Certainly,  the  early 
life  of  Stendhal’s  De  V Amour  justifies  this  somewhat- 
distant  attitude  towards  the  public.  The  first  and 
second  editions  were  phenomenal  failures — not  even 
a hundred  readers  were  forthcoming.  But  Stendhal, 
writing  in  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
himself  prophesied  that  the  twentieth  would  find  his 
ideas  at  least  more  comprehensible.  The  ideas  of  genius 
in  one  age  are  the  normal  spiritual  food  for  superior 
intellect  in  the  next.  Stendhal  is  still  something  of  a 
mystery  to  the  general  public  ; but  the  ideas,  which  he 
agitated,  are  at  present  regarded  as  some  of  the  most 
important  subjects  for  immediate  enquiry  by  many  of 
the  keenest  and  most  practical  minds  of  Europe. 

A glance  at  the  headings  of  the  chapters  gives  an  idea 
of  the  breadth  of  Stendhal’s  treatment  of  love.  He 
touches  on  every  side  of  the  social  relationship  between 
man  and  woman  ; and  while  considering  the  disposition 
of  individual  nations  towards  love,  gives  us  a brilliant, 
if  one-sided,  general  criticism  of  these  nations,  conscious 
throughout  of  the  intimate  connexion  in  any  given  age 
between  its  conceptions  of  love  and  the  status  of  woman. 

Stendhal’s  ideal  of  love  has  various  names : it  is 

generally  “ passion-love,”  but  more  particularly  “ love 

V 


VI 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE 


"’^a  VitalienneFx  The  thing  in  itself  is  always  the  same — 
it  is  the  love  of  a man  and  a woman,  not  as  husband 
and  wife,  not  as  mistress  and  lover,  but  as  two  human 

L beings,  who  find  the  highest  possible  pleasure,  not  in 
passing  so  many  hours  of  the  day  or  night  together,  but 
in  living  one  life.  Still  more,  it  is  the  aj-taebment  of 
two  free  fellow-creatures — not  of  master  and  slave. 

Stendhal  was  born  in  1783 — eight  years  before  Olympe 
de  Gouges,  the  French  Mary  Wollstonecraft,  published 
her  Declaration  des  Droits  des  Femmes.  That  is  to  say, 
by  the  time  Stendhal  had  reached  mental  maturity, 
Europe  had  for  some  time  been  acquainted  with  the  cry 
for  Women’s  Rights,  and  heard  the  earliest  statement 
of  the  demands,  which  have  broadened  out  into  what 
our  age  glibly  calls  the  “ Woman  Question.”  How, 
may  we  ask,  does  Stendhal’s  standpoint  correspond 
with  his  chronological  position  between  the  French 
Revolution  and  the  “ Votes  for  Women  ” campaign  of 
the  present  day  ? 

Stendhal  is  emphatically  a champion  of  Women’s 
Rights.  It  is  true  that  the  freedom,  which  Stendhal 
demands,  is  designed  for  other  ends  than  are  associated 
to-day  with  women’s  claims.  Perhaps  Stendhal,  were 
he  alive  now,  would  cry  out  against  what  he  would 
call  a distortion  of  the  movement  he  championed.  Men, 
and  still  more  women,  must  be  free,  Stendhal  holds,  in 
order  to  love  ; his  chapters  in  this  book  on  the  education 
of  women  are  all  an  earnest  and  brilliant  plea  to  prove 
that  an  educated  woman  is  not  necessarily  a pedant ; that 
she  is,  on  the  contrary,  far  more  lovable  than  the 
uneducated  woman,  whom  our  grandfathers  brought  up 
on  the  piano,  needlework  and  the  Catechism  ; in  fine,  that 
intellectual  sympathy  is  the  true  basis  of  happiness  in 
the  relations  of  the  two  sexes.  Modern  exponents  of 
Women’s  Rights  will  say  that  this  is  true,  but  only  half 
the  truth.  It  would  be  more  correct  to  say  that  Stendhal 
1 See  p.  195,  below. 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE  vH 

saw  the  whole  truth,  but  forbore  to  follow  it  out  to 
its  logical  conclusion  with  the  blind  intransigeance  of 
the  modern  propagandist.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Stendhal 
certainly  deserves  more  acknowledgment,  as  one  of  the 
pioneers  in  the  movement,  than  he  generally  receives 
from  its  present-day  supporters. 

Stendhal  was  continually  lamenting  his  want  of  ability 
to  write.  According  to  him,  a perusal  of  the  Code 
Civil , before  composition,  was  the  best  way  he  had 
found  of  grooming  his  style.  This  may  well  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  opinion,  handed  on  from  one  history 
of  French  literature  to  another,  that  Stendhal,  like 
Balzac — it  is  usually  put  in  these  very  words — had  no 
style.  It  is  not,  correctly  speaking,  what  the  critics 
themselves  mean  : to  have  no  style  would  be  to  chop 
and  change  from  one  method  of  expression  to  another, 
and  nothing  could  be  less  truly  said  of  either  of  these 
writers.  They  mean  that  he  had  a bad  style,  and  that 
is  certainly  a matter  of  taste.  Perhaps  the  critics,  while 
condemning,  condemn  themselves.  It  is  the  severe 
beauty  of  the  Code  Civil  which  makes  them  uncom- 
fortable. An  eye  for  an  eye  and  a spade  for  a spade  is 
Stendhal’s  way.  He  is  suspicious  of  the  slightest  adorn- 
ment : everything  that  is  thought  clearly  can  be  written 
simply.  Other  writers  have  had  as  simplified  a style 
— Montesquieu  or  Voltaire,  for  example — but  there  is 
scant  merit  in  telling  simply  a simple  lie,  and  Voltaire, 
as  Stendhal  himself  says,  was  afraid  of  things  which  are 
difficult  to  put  into  words.  This  kind  of  daintiness  is 
not  Stendhal’s  simplicity : he  is  merely  uncompromising 
and  blunt.  True,  his  bluntness  is  excessive.  A nice 
balance  between  the  severity  of  the  Code  Civil  and 
the  “ drums  and  tramplings  ” of  Elizabethan  English 
comes  as  naturally  to  an  indifferent  pen,  whipped  into 
a state  of  false  enthusiasm,  as  it  is  foreign  to  the  warmth 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE 


viii 

of  genuine  conviction.  Had  Stendhal  been  a little  less 
vehement  and  a little  less  hard-headed,  there  might 
have  been  fewer  modifications,  a few  less  repetitions, 
contradictions,  ellipses — but  then  so  much  the  less 
Stendhal.  In  that  case  he  might  have  trusted  himself : 
as  it  was  he  knew  his  own  tendency  too  wrell  and  took 
fright.  Sometimes  in  reading  Carlyle,  one  wfishes  that 
he  had  felt  the  same  kind  of  modesty : he,  certainly, 
could  never  have  kept  to  the  thin  centre  line,  and  w'e 
should  have  had  another  great  writer  “ without  a style.” 
Effect  meant  little  to  Stendhal,  hard  fact  and  clearness 
everything.  Perhaps,  he  would  often  have  made  his 
meaning  clearer,  if  he  had  been  less  suspicious  of 
studied  effect  and  elaborate  writing.  Not  infrequently 
he  succeeds  in  being  colloquial  and  matter-of-fact,  with- 
out being  definite. 

Stendhal  was  beset  with  a horror  of  being  artistic. 
Was  it  not  he  who  said  of  an  artist,  whose  dress  was 
particularly  elaborate  : “ Depend  upon  it,  a man  wTho 
adorns  his  person  will  also  adorn  his  work  ” ? Stendhal 
was  a soldier  first,  then  a writer — Salviati1  is  a soldier. 
Certainly  it  is  his  contempt  for  the  type  of  person — even 
commoner,  perhaps,  in  1914  than  in  1814 — who  carries 
his  emotions  on  his  sleeve,  which  accounts  for  Stendhal’s 
naive  disclaimer  of  personal  responsibility,  the  invention 
of  Lisio2  and  Salviati,  mythical  authors  of  this  work  on 
love — all  a thin  screen  to  hide  his  own  obsession,  which 
manages,  none  the  less,  to  break  through  unmasked  on 
almost  every  page. 

The  translation  makes  no  attempt  to  hide  these 
peculiarities  or  even  to  make  too  definite  a sense  from  a 
necessarily  doubtful  passage.3  Its  whole  aim  is  to  repro- 

1 See  below,  Chap.  XXXI. 

2 See  note  at  end  of  Chap.  I,  p.  21,  below;  also  p.  xiv  and  p.  157, 
n.  1,  below. 

3 Stendhal  confesses  that  he  went  so  far  “ as  to  print  several  passages 
which  he  did  not  understand  himself.”  (See  p.  4,  below.) 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE  he 

duce  Stendhal’s  essay  in  English,  just  as  it  stands  in 
French.  No  other  English  translation  of  the  whole  work 
exists : only  a selection  of  its  maxims  translated  piece- 
meal.1 Had  a translation  existed,  we  should  certainly 
not  have  undertaken  another.  As  it  is,  we  have  relied 
upon  a great  sympathy  with  the  author,  and  a studied 
adhesion  to  what  he  said,  in  order  to  reconstruct  this 
essay — encouraged  by  the  conviction  that  the  one  is  as 
necessary  as  the  other  in  order  to  obtain  a satisfactory 
result.  Charles  Cotton’s  Montaigne  seems  to  us  the 
pattern  of  all  good  translations. 


In  spite  of  the  four  prefaces  of  the  original,  we  felt  it 
advisable  to  add  still  another  to  the  English  translation. 
Stendhal  said  that  no  book  stood  in  greater  need  of  a 
word  of  introduction.  That  was  in  Paris — here  it  is  a 
foreigner,  dressed  up,  we  trust,  quite  a I’anglaise,  but 
still,  perhaps,  a little  awkward,  and  certainly  in  need  of 
something  more  than  the  chilly  announcement  of  the  title 
page — about  as  encouraging  as  the  voice  of  the  flunkey, 
who  bawls  out  your  name  at  a party  over  the  heads  of 
the  crowd  already  assembled.  True,  the  old  English 
treatment  of  foreigners  has  sadly  degenerated:  more  bows 
than  brickbats  are  their  portion,  now  London  knows  the 
charm  of  cabarets,  revues  and  cheap  French  cooking.2 

The  work  in  itself  is  conspicuous,  if  not  unique.  Books 
on  Love  are  legion  : how  could  it  be  otherwise  ? It  was 
probably  the  first  topic  of  conversation,  and  none  has 
since  been  found  more  interesting.  But  Stendhal 
has  devised  a new  treatment  of  the  subject.  His 
method  is  analytical  and  scientific,  but,  at  the  same  time, 

1 Maxims  of  Love  (Stendhal).  (Royal  Library,  Arthur  Humphreys, 
London,  1906). 

2 Lady  Holland  told  Lord  Broughton  in  1815,  that  she  remem- 

bered “ when  it  used  to  be  said  on  the  invitation  cards : ‘ No  foreigners 
dine  with  usd  ” ( Recollections  of  a Long  Life,  Vol.  I,  p.  327). 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE 


there  is  no  attempt  at  bringing  the  subject  into  line 
with  a science  ; it  is  no  part  of  erotology — there  is  no 

Greek  ending  with  a little  passing  bell 

That  signifies  some  faith  about  to  die.1 

His  faith  is  unimpeachable  and  his  curiosity  and  honesty 
unbounded  : this  is  what  makes  him  conspicuous.  In 
claiming  to  be  scientific,  Stendhal  meant  nothing  more 
than  that  his  essay  was  based  purely  upon  unbiassed 
observation  ; that  he  accepted  nothing  upon  vague 
hearsay  or  from  tradition  ; that  even  the  finer  shades  of 
sentiment  could  be  observed  with  as  much  disinterested 
precision,  if  not  made  to  yield  as  definite  results,  as  any 
other  natural  phenomena.  “ The  man  who  has  known 
love  finds  all  else  unsatisfying  ” — is,  properly  speaking,  a 
scientific  fact. 

Analytical,  however,  is  the  best  wrnrd  to  characterise 
the  Stendhalian  method.  Scientific  suggests,  perhaps, 
more  naturally  the  broader  treatment  of  love,  which  is 
familiar  in  Greek  literature,  lives  all  through  the  Middle 
Ages,  is  typified  in  Dante,  and  survives  later  in  a host  of 
Renaissance  dialogues  and  treatises  on  Love.  This  love 
— see  it  in  the  Symposium  of  Plato,  in  Dante  or  in  the 
Dialoghi  of  Leone  Ebreo — is  more  than  a human  pas- 
sion, it  is  also  the  amor  che  muove  il  sole  e le  altre  stelle, 
the  force  of  attraction  which,  combined  with  hate, 
the  force  of  repulsion,  is  the  cause  of  universal  move- 
ment. In  this  way  love  is  not  only  scientifically  treated, 
it  embraces  all  other  sciences  within  it.  Scientists  will 
smile,  but  the  day  of  Science  and  Art  with  a con- 
temptuous smile  for  each  other  is  over.  True,  the 
feeling  underlying  this  cosmic  treatment  of  love  is 
very  human,  very  simple — a conviction  that  love,  as  a 
human  passion,  is  all-important,  and  a desire  to  justify 
its  importance  by  finding  it  a place  in  a larger  order  of 

1 He  does  call  It,  once  or  twice,  a “ Physiology  of  Love,”  and  else- 
where a “ livre  d' ideologic ,”  but  apologises  for  its  singular  form  at  the 
same  time.  (See  Fourth  Preface,  p.  1 1 , and  Chap.  Ill,  p.  27,  n.  1). 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE 


xi 


things,  in  the  “ mystical  mathematics  of  the  kingdom 
of  Heaven.”  Weaker  heads  than  Plato  are  also  pleased 
to  call  love  divine,  without  knowing  very  clearly  what 
they  mean  by  divinity.  Their  ignorance  is  relative  ; 
the  allegorical  representation  of  Eros — damned  and 
deified  alternately  by  the  poets — is  in  motive,  perhaps, 
not  so  far  from  what  we  have  called  the  scientific,  but, 
perhaps,  might  better  have  named  the  cosmic,  treat- 
ment. 

In  a rough  classification  of  books  on  Love  one  can 
imagine  a large  number  collected  under  the  heading — 
“ Academic.”  One  looks  for  something  to  express  that 
want  of  plain  dealing,  of  terre-a-terre  frankness,  which  is 
so  deplorable  in  the  literature  of  Love,  and  is  yet  the 
distinctive  mark  of  so  much  of  it.  “ Academic  ” com- 
prehends a wide  range  of  works  all  based  on  a more  or 
less  set  or  conventional  theory  of  the  passions.  It 
includes  the  average  modern  novel,  in  which  convention 
is  supreme  and  experience  negligible — just  a traditional, 
lifeless  affair,  in  which  there  is  not  even  a pretence  of 
curiosity  or  love  of  truth.  And,  at  the  same  time,  “acade- 
mic ” is  the  label  for  the  kind  of  book  in  which  conven- 
tion is  rather  on  the  surface,  rather  in  the  form  than  in 
the  matter.  Tullia  of  Aragon,  for  example,  was  no  tyro  in 
the  theory  and  practice  of  love,  but  her  Dialogo  d’Amore 
is  still  distinctly  academic.  Of  course  it  is  easy  to  be 
misled  by  a stiff  varnish  of  old-fashioned  phrase  ; the 
reader  in  search  of  sincerity  will  look  for  it  in  the  thought 
expressed,  not  in  the  manner  of  expression.  There  is 
more  to  be  learnt  about  love  from  Werther,  with  all 
his  wordy  sorrows,  than  from  the  slick  tongue  of  Yorick, 
who  found  it  a singular  blessing  of  his  life  “ to  be  almost 
every  hour  of  it  miserably  in  love  with  someone.”  But, 
then,  just  because  Werther  is  wordy,  all  his  feelings 
come  out,  expressed  one  way  or  another.  With 
Tullia,  and  others  like  her,  one  feels  that  so  much 
is  suppressed,  because  it  did  not  fit  the  conventional 


Xll 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE 


frame.  What  she  says  she  felt,  but  she  must  have 
felt  so  much  more  or  have  known  that  others  felt 
more. 

This  suppression  of  truth  has,  of  course,  nothing  to  do 
with  the  partial  treatment  of  love  necessary  often  in 
purely  imaginative  literature.  No  one  goes  to  poetry 
for  an  anatomy  of  love.  Not  love,  but  people  in  love, 
are  the  business  of  a playwright  or  a novelist.  The 
difference  is  very  great.  The  purely  imaginative  writer 
is  dealing  with  situations  first,  and  then  with  the  passions 
that  cause  them. 

Here  it  is  interesting  to  observe  that  Stendhal,  in 
gathering  his  evidence,  makes  use  of  works  of  imagina- 
tion as  often  as  works  based  upon  fact  or  his  own 
actual  experience.1  Characters  from  Scott  are  called  in 
as  witnesses,  side  by  side  with  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse 
or  Mariana  Alcaforado. 

The  books  mentioned  by  Stendhal  are  of  two  distinct 
kinds.  There  are  those,  from  which  he  draws  evidence 
and  support  for  his  own  theories,  and  in  which  the  con- 
nexion with  love  is  only  incidental  (Shakespeare’s  Plays, 
for  example,  Don  Juan  or  the  Nouvelle  Helo'ise ),  and 
others  whose  authors  are  really  his  forerunners,  such  as 
Andre  le  Chapelain.2  Stendhal  gives  some  account  of 
this  curious  writer,  who  perhaps  comes  nearer  his  own 
analytical  method  than  any  later  writer.  In  fact,  we 
have  called  Stendhal  unique  perhaps  too  rashly — there 
are  others  he  does  not  mention,  who,  in  a less  sustained 
and  intentional  way,  have  attempted  an  analytical,  and 
still  imaginative,  study  of  love.  Stendhal  makes  no 
mention  of  a short  essay  on  Love  by  Pascal,  which  cer- 
tainly falls  in  the  same  category  as  his  own.  It  is  less 
illuminating  than  one  might  expect,  but  to  read  it  is  to 
appreciate  still  more  the  restraint,  which  Stendhal  has 
consciously  forced  upon  himself.  Others  also  since 

1 See  p.  63,  n.  1,  below. 

2 See  p.  339,  below. 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE 


xiii 

Stendhal — Baudelaire,  for  instance — have  made  casual 
and  valuable  investigations  in  the  Stendhalian  method. 
Baudelaire  has  here  and  there  a maxim  which,  in  bril- 
liance and  exactitude,  equals  almost  anything  in  this 
volume.1 

And  then — though  this  is  no  place  for  a bibliography 
of  love — there  is  Hazlitt’s  Liber  Amoris.  Stendhal  would 
have  loved  that  patient,  impartial  chronicle  of  love’s 
ravages : instead  of  Parisian  salons  and  Duchesses  it  is 
all  servant-girls  and  Bloomsbury  lodging-houses ; but  the 
Liber  Amoris  is  no  less  pitiful  and,  if  possible,  more  real 
than  the  diary  of  Salviati. 

There  are  certain  books  which,  for  the  frequency  of 
their  mention  in  this  work,  demand  especial  attention  of 
the  reader — they  are  its  commentary  and  furnish  much 
of  the  material  for  its  ideas. 

In  number  CLXV  of  “ Scattered  Fragments  ” (below, 
p.  328)  Stendhal  gives  the  list  as  follows : — 

The  Autobiography  of  Benvenuto  Cellini. 

The  novels  of  Cervantes  and  Scarron. 

Manon  Lescaut  and  Le  Doyen  de  Killer ine,  by  the 
Abbe  Prevot. 

The  Latin  Letters  of  Heloise  to  Abelard. 

Tom  Jones. 

Letters  of  a Portuguese  Nun. 

Two  or  three  stories  by  Auguste  La  Fontaine. 

Pignotti’s  History  of  Tuscany. 

Werther. 

Brantome. 

Memoirs  of  Carlo  Gozzi  (Venice,  1760) — only  the 
eighty  pages  on  the  history  of  his  love  affairs. 

The  Memoirs  of  Lauzun,  Saint-Simon,  d’Epinay, 
de  Stael,  Marmontel,  Bezenval,  Roland,  Duclos, 
Horace  Walpole,  Evelyn,  Hutchinson. 

Letters  of  Mademoiselle  Lespinasse. 

1 See  Translators’  note  11,  p,  343,  below. 


XIV 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE 


All  these  are  more  or  less  famous  works,  with  which, 
at  least  by  name,  the  general  reader  is  familiar.  Bran- 
tome’s  witty  and  entertaining  writings,  the  Letters  of  a 
Portuguese  Nun  and  those  of  Mademoiselle  de  Les- 
pinasse,  perhaps  the  sublimest  letters  that  have  ever  been 
written,  are  far  less  read  than  they  deserve.  The  rest — 
excepting  perhaps  Scarron,  Carlo  Gozzi,  Auguste  La 
Fontaine,  and  one  or  two  of  the  less-known  Memoirs — 
are  the  common  reading  of  a very  large  public. 

This  list  of  books  is  mentioned  as  the  select  library  of 
Lisio  Visconti,  who  “ was  anything  but  a great  reader.” 
Lisio  Visconti  is  one  of  the  many  imaginary  figures, 
behind  which  hides  Stendhal  himself  ; we  have  already 
suggested  one  reason  for  this  curious  trait.  Besides  Lisio 
Visconti  and  Salviati,  we  meet  Del  Rosso,  Scotti,  Delfante, 
Pignatelli,  Zilietti,  Baron  de  Bottmer,  etc.  etc.  Often 
these  phantom  people  are  mentioned  side  by  side  with  a 
character  from  a book  or  a play  or  with  someone  Stendhal 
had  actually  met  in  life.  General  Teulie1  is  a real  person 
— Stendhal’s  superior  officer  on  his  first  expedition  in 
Italy  : Schiassetti  is  a fiction.  In  the  same  way  the  dates, 
which  the  reader  will  often  find  appended  to  a story  or  a 
note,  sometimes  give  the  date  of  a real  event  in  Stendhal’s 
life,  while  at  other  times  it  can  be  proved  that,  at  the 
particular  time  given,  the  event  mentioned  could  not 
have  taken  place.  This  falsification  of  names  and  dates 
was  a mania  with  Stendhal.  To  most  of  his  friends  he 
gave  a name  completely  different  from  their  real  one, 
and  adopted  with  each  of  them  a special  pseudonym  for 
himself.  The  list  of  Stendhal’s  pseudonyms  is  extensive 
and  amusing.2  But  he  was  not  always  thorough  in  his 
system  of  disguise  : he  is  even  known  to  have  written 
from  Italy  a letter  in  cypher,  enclosing  at  the  same  time 
the  key  to  the  cypher  ! 

1 See  p.  309,  below 

2 The  list  may  be  found  in  Les  plus  belles  pages  de  Stendhal  (Mercure 
de  France,  Paris,  1908,  pp.  511-14). 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE 


xv 


We  have  only  to  make  a few  additions  to  Lisio  Vis- 
conti’s list  of  books  already  mentioned,  in  order  to  have  a 
pretty  fair  account  of  the  main  sources  of  reference  and 
suggestion,  to  which  Stendhal  turned  in  writing  his 
De  V Amour.1  There  are  Rousseau’s  Nouvelle  Heloise  and 
Emile.  Stendhal  holds  that,  except  for  very  green  youth, 
the  Nouvelle  Heloise  is  unreadable.  Yet  in  spite  of  its 
affectation,  it  remained  for  him  one  of  the  most  important 
works  for  the  study  of  genuine  passion.  Then  we  must 
add  the  Liaisons  Dangereuses — a work  which  bears  certain 
resemblances  to  Stendhal’s  De  V Amour.  Both  are  the 
work  of  a soldier  and  both  have  a soldierly  directness ; 
for  perfect  balance  and  strength  of  construction  few 
books  have  come  near  the  Liaisons  Dangereuses — none 
have  ever  surpassed  it.  There  is  the  Princes se  de  Cleves 
of  Madame  de  Lafayette  and  Corinne  by  Madame  de 
Stagl,  whose  typically  German  and  extravagant  admira- 
tion for  Italy  touched  a weak  spot  in  Stendhal.  After 
Chateaubriand’s  Genie  du  Christianisme , which  Stendhal 
also  refers  to  more  than  once,  the  works  of  Madame  de 
StaSl  were,  perhaps,  the  greatest  working  influence  in  the 
rise  of  Romanticism.  What  wonder,  then,  that  Stendhal 
was  interested  ? To  the  letters  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse 
and  of  the  Portuguese  Nun  we  must  add  the  letters  of 
Mirabeau,  written  during  his  imprisonment  at  Vincennes, 
to  Sophie  de  Monnier.  Further,  we  must  add  the  writ- 
ings of  certain  moral  teachers  whose  names  occur  fre- 
quently in  the  following  pages : Helvetius,  whom 
Claretie2  amusingly  calls  the  enfant  terrible  of  the  philos- 
ophers ; de  Tracy3 ; Volney,  author  of  the  once  cele- 
brated Ruines,  traveller  and  philosopher.  These  names 
are  only  the  most  important.  Stendhal’s  reading  was 

1 On  p.  7,  below,  Stendhal  refers  to  some  of  the  “ best  ” books 
on  Love. 

2 Hutoire  de  la  Litterature  Franfaise  (800-1900),  Paris,  1907. 

3 See  Translators’  note  47,  p.  353,  below, 

b 


XVJ 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE 


extensive,  and  we  might  swell  the  list  with  the  names 
of  Montesquieu,  Condillac,  Condorcet,  Chamfort, 
Diderot — to  name  only  the  moralists. 

It  is  noticeable  that  almost  all  these  books,  mentioned 
as  the  favourite  authorities  of  Stendhal,  are  eighteenth- 
century  works.  The  fact  will  seem  suspicious  to  those 
inclined  to  believe  that  the  eighteenth  century  was  a time 
of  pretty  ways  and  gallantry  a la  Watteau,  or  of  windy 
mouthings  about  Cause  and  Effect,  Duties  and  Prin- 
ciples, Reason  and  Nature.  But,  to  begin  with,  neither 
estimate  comes  near  the  mark  ; and,  moreover,  Stendhal 
hated  Voltaire  almost  as  much  as  Blake  did.  It  was  not 
an  indiscriminate  cry  of  Rights  and  Liberty  which 
interested  Stendhal  in  the  eighteenth  century.  The  old 
regime  was,  of  course,  politically  uncongenial  to  him,  the 
liberal  and  Bonapartist,  and  he  could  see  the  stupidity 
and  injustice  and  hollowness  of  a society  built  up  on 
privilege.  But  even  if  Stendhal,  like  the  happy  optimist 
of  to-day,  had  mistaken  the  hatred  of  past  wrongs  for 
a proof  of  present  well-being,  how  could  a student  of 
Love  fail  to  be  fascinated  by  an  age  such  as  that  of 
Lewis  XV  ? It  was  the  leisure  for  loving,  which,  as  he 
was  always  remarking,  court-life  and  only  court-life 
makes  possible,  that  reconciled  him  to  an  age  he  really 
despised.  Moreover,  the  mass  of  memoirs  and  letters 
of  the  distinguished  men  and  women  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  offering  as  it  does  material  for  the  study  of 
manners  unparalleled  in  any  other  age,  inevitably  led 
him  back  to  the  court-life  of  the  ancien  regime. 
Besides,  as  has  been  already  suggested,  the  contradiction 
in  Stendhal  was  strong.  In  spite  of  his  liberalism,  he 
was  pleased  in  later  life  to  add  the  aristocratic  “ de  ” to 
the  name  of  Beyle.  With  Lord  Byron,  divided  in  heart 
between  the  generous  love  of  liberty  which  led  him  to 
fight  for  the  freedom  of  Greece,  and  disgust  at  the 
vulgarity  of  the  Radical  party,  which  he  had  left  behind 
in  England,  Stendhal  found  himself  closely  in  sympathy 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE  xvii 

i 

when  they  met  in  Italy.  It  was  the  originality1  of  the 
men  of  the  sixteenth  century  which  called  forth  his 
genuine  praises;  even  the  statesmen- courtiers  and 
soldiers  of  the  heroic  age  of  Lewis  XIV  awoke  his  ad- 
miration ;2  the  gallant  courtiers  and  incompetent 
statesmen  of  Lewis  XV  awoke  at  least  his  interest. 

Stendhal’s  De  V Amour,  and  in  less  degree  his  novels, 
have  had  to  struggle  for  recognition,  and  the  cause  has 
largely  been  the  peculiarity  of  his  attitude — his  scepti- 
cism, the  exaggerated  severity  of  his  treatment  of  idyllic 
subjects,  together  with  an  unusual  complement  of  senti- 
ment and  appreciation  of  the  value  of  sentiment  for  the 
understanding  of  life.  It  is  his  manner  of  thinking, 
much  rather  than  the  strangeness  of  his  thoughts  them- 
selves, which  made  the  world  hesitate  to  give  Stendhal 
the  position  which  it  now  accords  him.  But  at  least 
one  great  discovery  the  world  did  find  in  De  V Amour — 
a novelty  quite  apart  from  general  characteristics,  apart 
from  its  strange  abruptness  and  stranger  truth  of  detail. 
Stendhal’s  discovery  is  “ Crystallisation  it  is  the  central 
idea  of  his  book.  The  word  was  his  invention,  though  the 
thought,  which  it  expresses  so  decisively,  is  to  be  found, 
like  most  so-called  advanced  ideas,  hidden  away  in  a 
corner  of  Montaigne’s  Essays.3  Crystallisation  is  the 

1 See  Chap.  XLI,  p.  159,  below. 

2 See  Chap.  XLI,  p.  160,  n.  2,  below. 

3 “ Like  the  passion  of  Love  that  lends  Beauties  and  Graces  to  the 
Person  it  does  embrace  ; and  that  makes  those  who  are  caught  with  it, 
with  a depraved  and  corrupt  Judgment,  consider  the  thing  they  love 
other  and  more  perfect  than  it  is.” — Montaigne’s  Essays,  Bk.  II,  Chapter 
XVII  (Cotton’s  translation.)  This  is  “ crystallisation  ” — Stendhal  could 
not  explain  it  better. 

We  cannot  here  forgo  quoting  one  more  passage  from  Montaigne, 
which  bears  distinctly  upon  other  important  views  of  Stendhal.  “ I 
say  that  Males  and  Females  are  cast  in  the  same  Mould  and  that,  Educa- 
tion and  Usage  excepted,  the  Difference  is  not  great.  ...  It  is  much 
more  easy  to  accuse  one  Sex  than  to  excuse  the  other.  ’Tis  according  to 
the  Proverb — ‘ 111  may  Vice  correct  Sin.’  ” (Bk.  Ill,  Chap.  V). 


xviii  INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE 

process  by  which  we  love  an  object  for  qualities,  which 
primarily  exist  in  our  fancy  and  which  we  lend  to  it, 
that  is  to  say,  imaginary  or  unreal  qualities.  While 
Montaigne,  and  others  no  doubt,  had  seen  in  this  a 
peculiarity  of  love,  Stendhal  saw  in  it  love’s  essential 
characteristic — one  might  say,  its  explanation,  if  love 
were  capable  of  being  explained.  Besides,  in  this  book 
Stendhal  is  seeking  the  how  not  the  why  of  love.  And 
he  goes  beyond  love : he  recognises  the  influence  of 
crystallisation  upon  other  sides  of  life  besides  love. 
Crystallisation  has  become  an  integral  part  of  the  world’s 
equipment  for  thought  and  expression. 

The  crisis  in  Stendhal’s  posthumous  history  is  Sainte- 
Beuve’s  Causeries  des  Lundis  of  January  2nd  and  9th, 
1854,  of  which  Stendhal  was  the  subject.  Stendhal  died 
in  1842.  It  is  sometimes  said  that  his  reputation  is  a 
fictitious  reputation,  intentionally  worked  up  by  parti- 
sanship and  without  regard  to  merit,  that  in  his  lifetime 
he  was  poorly  thought  of.  This  is  untrue.  His  artistic 
activities,  like  his  military,  were  appreciated  by  those 
competent  to  judge  them.  He  was  complimented  by 
Napoleon  on  his  services  prior  tothe  retreat  from  Moscow; 
Balzac,  who  of  all  men  was  capable  of  judging  a novel 
and,  still  more,  a direct  analysis  of  a passion,  was  one  of 
his  admirers,  and  particularly  an  admirer  of  De  /’ Amour. 
From  the  general  public  he  met  to  a great  extent  with 
mistrust,  and  for  a few  years  after  his  death  his  memory 
was  honoured  with  apathetic  silence.  The  few,  a 
chosen  public  and  some  faithful  friends — Merimee  and 
others — still  cherished  his  reputation.  In  1853,  owing 
in  great  measure  to  the  efforts  of  Romain  Colomb  and 
Louis  Crozet,  a complete  edition  of  his  works  was  pub- 
lished by  Michel-Levy.  And  then,  very  appropriately, 
early  in  the  next  year  was  heard  the  impressive  judgment 
of  Sainte-Beuve.  Perhaps  the  justest  remark  in  that  just 
appreciation  is  where  he  gives  Stendhal  the  merit  of 
being  one  of  the  first  Frenchmen  to  travel  litter  air  e- 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE  xi* 

ment  parlant d Stendhal  came  back  from  each  of  his 
many  and  frequent  voyages,  like  the  happy  traveller  in 
Joachim  du  Bellay’s  sonnet,  plein  dusage  et  raison 
— knowing  the  ways  of  men  and  full  of  ripe  wisdom. 
And  this  is  true  not  only  of  his  travels  over  land  and 
sea,  but  also  of  those  into  the  thoughtful  world  of 
books. 

An  equally  true — perhaps  still  truer — note  was  struck 
by  Sainte-Beuve,  when  he  insisted  on  the  important  place 
in  Stendhal’s  character  played  by  la  peur  d’etre  dupe — 
the  fear  of  being  duped.  Stendhal  was  always  and  in 
all  situations  beset  by  this  fear  ; it  tainted  his  happiest 
moments  and  his  best  qualities.  We  have  already  re- 
marked on  the  effect  on  his  style  of  his  mistrust  of  him- 
self— it  is  the  same  characteristic.  A sentimental 
romantic  by  nature,  he  was  always  on  his  guard  against 
the  follies  of  a sentimental  outlook  ; a sceptic  by  educa- 
tion and  the  effect  of  his  age,  he  was  afraid  of  being 
the  dupe  of  his  doubts ; he  was  sceptical  of  scepticism 
itself.  This  tended  to  make  him  unreal  and  affected, 
made  him  often  defeat  his  own  ends  in  the  oddest  way. 
In  order  to  avoid  the  possibility  of  being  carried  away 
too  far  along  a course,  in  which  instinct  led  him,  he  would 
choose  a direction  approved  instead  by  his  intellect,  only 
to  find  out  too  late  that  he  was  cutting  therein  a sorry 
figure.  Remember,  as  a boy  he  made  his  entrance  into 
the  world  “ with  the  fixed  intention  of  being  a seducer  of 
women,”  and  that,  late  in  life,  he  made  the  melancholy 
confession  that  his  normal  role  was  that  of  the  lover 
crossed  in  love.  Here  lies  the  commentary  on  not  a 
little  in  Stendhal’s  life  and  works. 

The  facts  of  his  life  can  be  told  very  briefly. 


Henry  Beyle,  who  wrote  under  the  name  of  Stendhal, 
was  born  at  Grenoble  in  1783,  and  was  educated  in  his 


1 “ In  a literary  sense.” 


XX  INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE 

native  town.  In  1799  he  came  to  Paris  and  was  placed 
there  under  the  protection  of  Daru,  an  important  officer 
under  Napoleon,  a relative  and  patron  of  his  family. 
But  he  showed  no  fitness  for  the  various  kinds  of  office 
work  to  which  he  was  put.  He  tried  his  hand  at  this 
time,  unsuccessfully  also,  at  painting. 

In  1800,  still  under  the  protection  of  Daru,  he  went 
to  Italy,  and,  having  obtained  a commission  in  the  6th 
regiment  of  Dragoons,  had  his  first  experience  of  active 
service.  By  1802  he  had  distinguished  himself  as  a 
soldier,  and  it  was  to  the  general  surprise  of  all  who 
knew  him,  that  he  returned  to  France  on  leave,  handed 
in  his  papers  and  returned  to  Grenoble. 

He  soon  returned  to  Paris,  there  to  begin  serious  study. 
But  in  1806,  he  was  once  more  with  Daru  and  the  army, — 
present  at  the  triumphal  entry  of  Napoleon  into  Berlin. 
It  was  directly  after  this  that  he  was  sent  to  Brunswick 
as  assistant  commissaire  des  guerres. 

He  left  Brunswick  in  1809,  but  after  a flying  visit  to 
Paris,  he  was  again  given  official  employment  in  Germany. 
He  was  with  the  army  at  Vienna.  After  the  peace  of 
Schoenbrunn  he  returned  once  more  to  Paris  in  1810. 

In  1812,  he  saw  service  once  more — taking  an  active 
and  distinguished  part  in  the  Russian  campaign  of 
that  year.  He  was  complimented  by  Napoleon  on  the 
way  he  had  discharged  his  duties  in  the  commissariat. 
He  witnessed  the  burning  of  Moscow  and  shared  in  the 
horrors  and  hardships  of  the  retreat. 

In  1813  his  duties  brought  him  to  Segan  in  Silesia,  and 
in  1814  to  his  native  town  of  Grenoble. 

The  fall  of  Napoleon  in  the  same  year  deprived  him 
of  his  position  and  prospects.  He  went  to  Milan  and 
stayed  there  with  little  interruption  till  1821  ; only 
leaving  after  these,  the  happiest,  years  of  his  life,  through 
fear  of  being  implicated  in  the  Carbonari  troubles. 

In  1830,  he  was  appointed  to  the  consulate  of  Trieste  ; 
but  Metternich,  who,  no  doubt,  mistrusted  his  liberal 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE 


xxi 


tendencies,  refused  to  ratify  his  appointment,  and  he 
was  transferred  to  Civita  Vecchia.  This  unhealthy  dis- 
trict tried  his  health,  and  frequent  travel  did  not  succeed 
in  repairing  it. 

In  1841,  he  was  on  leave  in  Paris,  where  he  died 
suddenly  in  the  following  year. 

Stendhal’s  best-known  books  are  his  two  novels : La 
Chartreuse  de  Parme  and  Le  Rouge  et  le  Noir.  Besides 
these  there  are  his  works  of  travel — Promenades  dans 
Rome  and  Rome , Florence  et  Naples ; Memoire  d’un 
F ouriste ; his  history  of  Italian  painting ; his  lives  of 
Haydn,  Mozart  and  Rossini;  L’Abbesse  de  Castro  and 
other  minor  works  of  fiction ; finally  a number  of  auto- 
biographical works,  of  which  La  Vie  de  Henri  Brulard, 
begun  in  his  fiftieth  year  and  left  incomplete,  is  the 
most  important. 

But  De  /’ Amour,  Stendhal  himself  considered  his  most 
important  work  ; it  was  written,  as  he  tells  us,  in  his  happy 
years  in  Lombardy.  It  was  published  on  his  return  to 
Paris  in  1822,  but  it  had  no  success,  and  copies  of  this 
edition  are  very  rare.  Recently  it  has  been  reprinted 
by  Messrs.  J.  M.  Dent  and  Sons  (in  Chef  d’CEuvres  de  la 
Litterature  Franfaise,  London  and  Paris,  1912).  The 
second  edition  (1833)  had  no  more  success  than  the  first 
and  is  equally  difficult  to  find.  Stendhal  was  preparing 
a third  edition  for  the  press  when  he  died  in  1842.  In 
1853  the  work  made  a new  appearance  in  the  edition  of 
Stendhal’s  works  published  by  Michel-Levy,  since  re- 
printed by  Calmann-Levy.  It  contains  certain  additions, 
some  of  which  Stendhal  probably  intended  for  the 
new  edition,  which  he  was  planning  at  the  time  of  his 
death. 

Within  the  last  year  have  appeared  the  first  volumes 
of  a new  French  edition  of  Stendhal’s  works,  published 
by  Messrs.  Honore  and  Edouard  Champion  of  Paris; 


xxn 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE 


It  will  be  the  most  complete  edition  of  Stendhal’s  works 
yet  published  and  is  the  surest  evidence  that  Stendhal’s 
position  in  French  literature  is  now  assured.  The 
volume  containing  De  V Amour  has  not  yet  appeared. 

The  basis  of  this  translation  is  the  first  edition,  to 
which  we  have  only  added  three  prefaces,  written  by 
Stendhal  at  various,  subsequent  dates  and  all  well  worth 
perusal.  Apart  from  these,  we  have  preferred  to  leave 
the  book  just  as  it  appeared  in  the  two  editions,  which 
were  published  in  Stendhal’s  own  lifetime. 

We  may,  perhaps,  add  a word  with  regard  to  our 
notes  at  the  end  of  the  book.  We  make  no  claim  that 
they  are  exhaustive : we  intended  only  to  select  some 
few  points  for  explanation  or  illustration,  with  the 
English  reader  in  view.  Here  and  there  in  this  book 
are  sentences  and  allusions  which  we  can  no  more 
explain  than  could  Stendhal  himself,  when  in  1822  he 
was  correcting  the  proof-sheets : as  he  did,  we  have  left 
them,  preferring  to  believe  with  him  that  “ the  fault 
lay  with  the  self  who  was  reading,  not  with  the  self  who 
had  written.”  But,  these  few  enigmas  aside — and  they 
are  very  few — to  make  an  exhaustive  collection  of  notes 
on  this  book  would  be  to  write  another  volume — one  of 
those  volumes  of  “Notes  and  Appendices,”  under  which 
scholars  bury  a Pindar  or  Catullus.  That  labour  we 
will  gladly  leave  to  others — to  be  accomplished,  w7e 
hope,  a thousand  years  hence,  when  French  also  is  a 
“ dead  ” language. 

In  conclusion  we  should  like  to  express  our  thanks  to 
our  friend  Mr.  W.  H.  Morant,  of  the  India  Office,  who 
has  helped  us  to  see  the  translation  through  the  Press. 

P.  and  C.  N.  S.  W. 


CONTENTS 


Introductory  Preface  to  the  Translation  . 
Author’s  Preface.  I .... 


33 

33 

35 


>3 

33 

33 


II  . 

III  . 

IV  . 


v 

1 

2 

10 

11 


BOOK  I 

CHAPTER 

I.  Of  Love  ........ 

II.  Of  the  Birth  of  Love  ..... 

III.  Of  Hope  ........ 

IV.  

V.  

VI.  The  Crystals  of  Salzburg  .... 

VII.  Differences  between  the  Birth  of  Love  irf  the 
Two  Sexes  ....... 

VIII.  

IX.  

X.  

XI.  

XII.  Further  Consideration  of  Crystallisation  . 

XIII.  Of  the  First  Step;  Of  the  Fashionable  World; 

Of  Misfortunes  ...... 


19 

22 

26 

29 

3° 

31 

33 

35 

39 

40 

43 

45 

47 


xxiii 


xxiv  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIV.  49 

XV.  52 

XVI.  53 

XVII.  Beauty  Dethroned  by  Love  ....  55 

XVIII.  Limitations  of  Beauty  .....  57 

XIX.  Limitations  of  Beauty  ( continued)  ...  59 

XX.  62 

XXL  Love  at  First  Sight  ......  63 

XXII.  Of  Infatuation  .......  66 

XXIII.  The  Thunderbolt  from  the  Blue  ...  67 

XXIV.  Voyage  in  an  Unknown  Land  ....  71 

XXV.  The  Introduction  ......  78 

XXVI.  Of  Modesty  .......  81 

XXVII.  The  Glance  .......  89 

XXVIII.  Of  Feminine  Pride  ......  90 

XXIX.  Of  Women’s  Courage  ......  98 

XXX.  A Peculiar  and  Mournful  Spectacle  . . .102 

XXXI.  Extract  from  the  Diary  of  Salviati  . . . 103 

XXXII.  Of  Intimate  Intercourse  . . . . .112 

XXXIII.  1 18 

XXXIV.  Of  Confidences  . . . . . . .119 

XXXV.  Of  Jealousy 123 

XXXVI.  Of  Jealousy  ( continued)  . . . . .129 

XXXVII.  Roxana 132 

XXXVIII.  Of  Self-Esteem  Piqued  . . . . . 1 34 

XXXIX.  Of  Quarrelsome  Love  ......  141 

XXXIX.  (Part  II)  Remedies  against  Love  ....  146 

XXXIX.  (Part  III) 149 


CONTENTS 


XXV 


BOOK  II 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XL.  155 

XLI.  Of  Nations  with  regard  to  Love — France  . .158 

XLII.  France  {continued)  ......  162 

XLIII.  Italy 166 

XLIV.  Rome  .........  170 

XLV.  England  ........  173 

XLVI.  England  {continued)  ......  177 

XL VII.  Spain 182 

XL VIII.  German  Love  . , . . . . .184 

XLIX.  A Day  in  Florence  ......  190 

L.  Love  in  the  United  States  ....  197 

LI.  Love  in  Provence  up  to  the  Conquest  of 
Toulouse,  in  1328,  by  the  Barbarians  from 
the  North  .......  200 

LII.  Provence  in  the  Twelfth  Century  . . . 20 6 

LIII.  Arabia— Fragments  gathered  and  translated  from  an 

Arab  collection  entitled  The  Divan  of  Love  . 213 

LIV.  Of  the  Education  of  Women  ....  222 

LV.  Objections  to  the  Education  of  Women  . . 227 

LVI.  Objections  to  the  Education  of  Women  ( continued)  236 
LVI.  (Part  II)  On  Marriage  .....  241 
LVII.  Of  Virtue,  so  Called  ......  243 

LVIII.  State  of  Europe  with  regard  to  Marriage. — 

Switzerland  and  the  Oberland  . . . 245 

LIX.  Werther  and  Don  Juan  .....  254 

BOOK  III 


Scattered  Fragments  s 


. 267 


XXVI 


CONTENTS 


APPENDIX 

PAGE 

On  the  Courts  of  Love  .......  332 

Code  of  Love  of  the  Twelfth  Century  ....  336 

Note  on  Andre  le  Chapelain  ......  339 

Translators’  Notes  ........  34.1 


Note  : All  the  footnotes  to  the  Translation,  except  those  within  square 
brackets,  which  are  the  work  of  the  Translators,  are  by  Stendhal  himself. 
The  Translators’  notes  at  the  end  of  the  book  are  referred  to  by  numerals 
enclosed  within  round  brackets. 


PREFACE1 


IT  is  in  vain  that  an  author  solicits  the  indulgence  of 
his  public — the  printed  page  is  there  to  give  the 
lie  to  his  pretended  modesty.  He  would  do  better  to 
trust  to  the  justice,  patience  and  impartiality  of  his 
readers,  and  it  is  to  this  last  quality  especially  that  the 
author  of  the  present  work  makes  his  appeal.  He  has 
often  heard  people  in  France  speak  of  writings,  opinions 
or  sentiments  as  being  “ truly  French  ” ; and  so  he 
may  well  be  afraid  that,  by  presenting  facts  truly 
as  they  are,  and  showing  respect  only  for  sentiments 
and  opinions  that  are  universally  true,  he  may  have 
provoked  that  jealous  exclusiveness,  which,  in  spite  of 
its  very  doubtful  character,  we  have  seen  of  late  set  up 
as  a virtue.  What,  I wonder,  would  become  of  history, 
of  ethics,  of  science  itself  or  of  literature,  if  they  had  to 
be  truly  German,  truly  Russian  or  Italian,  truly  Spanish 
or  English,  as  soon  as  they  had  crossed  the  Rhine,  the 
Alps  or  the  Channel  ? What  are  we  to  say  to  this  kind 
of  justice,  to  this  ambulatory  truth  ? When  we  see 
such  expressions  as  “ devotion  truly  Spanish,”  “ virtues 
truly  English,”  seriously  employed  in  the  speeches  of 
patriotic  foreigners,  it  is  high  time  to  suspect  this  senti- 
ment, which  expresses  itself  in  very  similar  terms  also 
elsewhere.  At  Constantinople  or  among  savages,  this 
blind  and  exclusive  partiality  for  one’s  own  country  is  a 
rabid  thirst  for  blood  ; among  civilised  peoples,  it  is  a 
morbid,  unhappy,  restless  vanity,  that  is  ready  to  turn 
on  you  for  a pinprick.2 

[*  To  the  first  edition,  1822. — Tr.] 

2 Extract  from  the  Preface  to  M.  Simond’s  Voyage  en  Suisse,  pp.  7,  8. 


B 


PREFACE1 


HIS  work  has  had  no  success : it  has  been  found 


unintelligible  — not  without  reason.  Therefore 
in  this  new  edition  the  author’s  primary  intention  has 
been  to  render  his  ideas  with  clearness.  He  has  related 
how  they  came  to  him,  and  he  has  made  a preface  and 
an  introduction — all  in  order  to  be  clear.  Yet,  in  spite 
of  so  much  care,  out  of  a hundred  who  have  read  Corhine , 
there  are  not  four  readers  who  will  understand  this 
volume. 

Although  it  deals  with  Love,  this  little  book  is  no  novel, 
and  still  less  is  it  diverting  like  a novel.  ’Tis  simply  and 
solely  an  exact  scientific  description  of  a kind  of  madness 
which  is  very  rarely  to  be  found  in  France.  The  Empire 
of  propriety,  growing  day  by  day  wider,  under  the 
influence  of  our  fear  of  ridicule  much  more  than  through 
the  purity  of  our  morals,  has  made  of  the  word,  which 
serves  as  title  to  this  work,  an  expression,  of  which  out- 
spoken mention  is  avoided  and  which  at  times  seems  even 
to  give  offence.  I have  been  forced  to  make  use  of  it, 
but  the  scientific  austerity  of  the  language  shelters  me, 
I think,  in  this  respect,  from  all  reproach. 

• ••••« 

I know  one  or  two  Secretaries  of  Legation  who  will, 
at  their  return,  be  able  to  tender  me  their  services.  Till 
then  what  can  I say  to  the  people  who  deny  the  facts 
of  my  narration  ? Beg  them  not  to  listen  to  it. 


[l  May,  1826. — Tr.] 


PREFACE 


3 

The  form  I have  adopted  may  be  reproached  with 
egoism.  A traveller  is  allowed  to  say : “ / was  at  New 
York,  thence  I embarked  for  South  America,  I made 
my  way  back  as  far  as  Santa-Fe-de-Bogota.  The  gnats 
and  mosquitoes  made  my  life  a misery  during  the  journey, 
and  for  three  days  1 couldn’t  use  my  right  eye.” 

The  traveller  is  not  accused  of  loving  to  talk  of  him- 
self : all  his  me’s  and  my’s  are  forgiven  ; for  that  is  the 
clearest  and  most  interesting  manner  of  telling  what  he 
has  seen. 

It  is  in  order,  if  possible,  to  be  clear  and  picturesque, 
that  the  author  of  the  present  voyage  into  the  little- 
known  regions  of  the  human  heart  says : “ I went  with 
Mme.  Gherardi  to  the  salt  mines  of  Hallein.  . . . 
Princess  Crescenzi  said  to  me  at  Rome.  . . . One  day  at 
Berlin  I saw  handsome  Capt.  L.  . . .”  All  these  little 
things  really  happened  to  the  author,  who  passed  fifteen 
years  in  Germany  and  Italy.  But  more  observant  than 
sensitive,  he  never  encountered  the  least  adventure  him- 
self, never  experienced  a single  personal  sentiment  worthy 
of  narration.  Even  supposing  that  he  had  the  pride  to 
believe  the  contrary,  a still  greater  pride  would  have 
prevented  him  from  publishing  his  heart  and  selling  it 
on  the  market  for  six  francs,  like  those  people  who  in 
their  lifetime  publish  their  memoirs. 

Correcting  in  1822  the  proofs  of  this  kind  of  moral 
voyage  in  Italy  and  Germany,  the  author,  who  had  de- 
scribed the  objects  the  day  that  he  had  seen  them, 
treated  the  manuscript,  containing  the  detailed  descrip- 
tion of  all  the  phases  of  this  malady  of  the  soul  called 
Love,  with  that  blind  respect,  shown  by  a scholar  of 
the  fourteenth  century  for  a newly  unearthed  manu- 
script of  Lactantius  or  Quintius  Curtius.  When  the 
author  met  some  obscure  passage  (and  often,  to  say  the 
truth,  that  happened),  he  always  believed  that  the  fault 
lay  with  the  self  who  was  reading,  not  with  the  self 
who  had  written.  He  confesses  that  his  respect  for  the 


4 


PREFACE 


early  manuscript  carried  him  so  far  as  to  print  several 
passages,  which  he  did  not  understand  himself.  Nothing 
more  foolish  for  anyone  who  had  thought  of  the  good 
graces  of  the  public  ; but  the  author,  seeing  Paris  again 
after  long  travels,  came  to  the  conclusion  that  without 
grovelling  before  the  Press  a success  was  not  to  be  had. 
Well,  let  him  who  brings  himself  to  grovel  keep  that  for 
the  minister  in  power ! A so-called  success  being  out  of 
the  question,  the  author  was  pleased  to  publish  his 
thoughts  exactly  as  they  had  come  to  him.  This  was 
once  upon  a time  the  procedure  of  those  philosophers  of 
Greece,  whose  practical  wisdom  filled  him  with  rapturous 
admiration. 

It  requires  years  to  gain  admittance  to  the  inner  circle 
of  Italian  society.  Perhaps  I shall  have  been  the  last 
traveller  in  that  country.  For  since  the  Carbonari  and 
the  Austrian  invasion,  no  foreigner  will  ever  be  received 
as  a friend  in  the  salons,  where  such  reckless  gaiety 
reigned.  The  traveller  will  see  the  monuments,  streets 
and  public  places  of  a city,  never  the  society — he  will 
always  be  held  in  fear : the  inhabitants  will  suspect  that 
he  is  a spy,  or  fear  that  he  is  laughing  at  the  battle  of 
Antrodoco  and  at  the  degradations,  which,  in  that  land, 
are  the  one  and  only  safeguard  against  the  persecution  of 
the  eight  or  ten  ministers  or  favourites  who  surround 
the  Prince.  Personally,  I really  loved  the  inhabitants 
and  could  see  the  truth.  Sometimes  for  ten  months 
together  I never  spoke  a word  of  French,  and  but  for 
political  troubles  and  the  Carbonari  I would  never  have 
returned  to  France.  Good-nature  is  what  I prize  above 
all  things. 

In  spite  of  great  care  to  be  clear  and  lucid,  I cannot 
perform  miracles : I cannot  give  ears  to  the  deaf  nor 
eyes  to  the  blind.  So  the  people  of  great  fortunes  and 
gross  pleasures,  who  have  made  a hundred  thousand 
francs  in  the  year  preceding  the  moment  they  open  this 
book,  had  better  quickly  shut  it,  especially  if  they  are 


PREFACE 


5 


bankers,  manufacturers,  respectable  industrial  folk — that’s 
to  say,  people  with  eminently  positive  ideas.  This  book 
would  be  less  unintelligible  to  anyone  who  had  made  a 
large  sum  of  money  on  the  Stock  Exchange  or  in  a lottery. 
Such  winnings  may  be  found  side  by  side  with  the  habit 
of  passing  hours  together  in  day-dreams,  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  emotion  evoked  by  a picture  of  Prud’hon,  a 
phrase  of  Mozart,  still  more,  a certain  peculiar  look  of  a 
woman  who  is  often  in  your  thoughts.  ’Tis  not  in  this 
way  that  these  people  “ waste  their  time,”  who  pay 
ten  thousand  workmen  at  the  end  of  each  week : their 
minds  work  always  towards  the  useful  and  the  positive. 
The  dreamer,  of  whom  I speak,  is  the  man  they  would 
hate,  if  they  had  time ; ’tis  him  they  like  to  make  the 
butt  of  their  harmless  jokes.  The  industrial  millionaire 
feels  confusedly  that  such  a man  has  more  estime  for 
a thought  than  for  a bag  of  money. 

I invite  the  studious  young  man  to  withdraw,  if  in 
the  same  year  as  the  industrial  gained  a hundred  thousand 
francs,  he  has  acquired  the  knowledge  of  modern  Greek, 
and  is  so  proud  of  it  that  already  he  aspires  to  Arabic. 
I beg  not  to  open  this  book  every  man,  who  has  not  been 
unhappy  for  imaginary  reasons,  reasons  to  which  vanity 
is  stranger,  and  which  he  would  be  very  ashamed  to  see 
divulged  in  the  salons. 

I am  sure  to  displease  those  women  who  capture  the 
consideration  of  these  very  salons  by  an  affectation  that 
never  lapses  for  an  instant.  Some  of  these  for  a moment 
I have  surprised  in  good  earnest,  and  so  astonished,  that, 
asking  themselves  the  question,  they  could  no  longer  tell 
whether  such  and  such  a sentiment,  as  they  had  just 
expressed,  was  natural  or  affected.  How  could  such 
women  judge  of  the  portraiture  of  real  feelings  ? In 
fact  this  work  has  been  their  bete  noire  : they  say  that 
the  author  must  be  a wretch. 

To  blush  suddenly  at  the  thought  of  certain  youthful 
doings ; to  have  committed  follies  through  sensibility 


6 


PREFACE 


and  to  suffer  for  them,  not  because  you  cut  a silly  figure 
in  the  eyes  of  the  salon , but  in  the  eyes  of  a certain 
person  in  the  salon  ; to  be  in  love  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
six  in  good  earnest  with  a woman  who  loves  another,  or 
even  (but  the  case  is  so  rare  that  I scarcely  dare  write  it, 
for  fear  of  sinking  again  into  the  unintelligible,  as  in  the 
first  edition) — or  even  to  enter  the  salon  where  the  woman 
is  whom  you  fancy  that  you  love,  and  to  think  only  of 
reading  in  her  eyes  her  opinion  of  you  at  the  moment, 
without  any  idea  of  putting  on  a love-lorn  expression 
yourself — these  are  the  antecedents  I shall  ask  of  my 
reader.  The  description  of  many  of  these  rare  and  subtle 
feelings  has  appeared  obscure  to  people  with  positive 
ideas.  How  manage  to  be  clear  in  their  eyes  ? Tell 
them  of  a rise  of  fifty  centimes  or  a change  in  the  tariff 
of  Columbia.1 

The  book  before  you  explains  simply  and  mathe- 
matically, so  to  speak,  the  curious  feelings  which  succeed 
each  other  and  form  a whole  called  the  Passion  of  Love. 

Imagine  a fairly  complicated  geometrical  figure,  drawn 
with  white  chalk  on  a large  blackboard.  Well,  I am 
going  to  explain  that  geometrical  figure,  but  on  one 
condition — that  it  exists  already  on  the  blackboard,  for 
I personally  cannot  draw  it.  It  is  this  impossibility  that 
makes  it  so  difficult  to  write  on  Love  a book  which  is  not 
a novel.  In  order  to  follow  with  interest  a philosophic 
examination  of  this  feeling,  something  is  wanted  in  the 
reader  besides  understanding : it  is  absolutely  necessary 
that  Love  has  been  seen  by  him.  But  then  where  can  a 
passion  be  seen  ? 

This  is  a cause  of  obscurity  that  I shall  never  be  able 
to  eliminate. 

1 “ Cut  this  passage  out,”  say  my  friends.  “ Nothing  could  be 
truer,  but  beware  of  the  men  of  business : they’ll  cry  out  on  the  aristo- 
crat.” In  1812  I was  not  afraid  of  the  Treasury : so  why  should  I be 
afraid  of  the  millionaire  in  1820  ? The  ships  supplied  to  the  Pasha  of 
Egypt  have  opened  my  eyes  in  their  direction,  and  I fear  nothing  but 
what  I respect. 


PREFACE 


7 

Love  resembles  what  we  call  the  Milky  Way  in  heaven, 
a gleaming  mass  formed  by  thousands  of  little  stars,  each 
of  which  may  be  a nebula.  Books  have  noted  four  or 
five  hundred  of  the  little  feelings  hanging  together  and 
so  hard  to  recognise,  which  compose  this  passion.  But 
even  in  these,  the  least  refined,  they  have  often  blundered 
and  taken  the  accessory  for  the  principal.  The  best  of 
these  books,  such  as  the  Nouvelle  Helo'ise , the  novels  of 
Madame  Cottin,  the  Letters  of  Mademoiselle  de  Lespin- 
asse  and  Manon  Lescaut , have  been  written  in  France, 
where  the  plant  called  Love  is  always  in  fear  of  ridicule, 
is  overgrown  by  the  demands  of  vanity,  the  national 
passion,  and  reaches  its  full  height  scarcely  ever. 

What  is  a knowledge  of  Love  got  from  novels  ? After 
seeing  it  described — without  ever  feeling  it — in  hundreds 
of  celebrated  volumes,  what  is  to  be  said  of  seeking  in 
mine  the  explanation  of  this  madness  ? I answer  like 
an  echo  : “ ’Tis  madness.” 

Poor  disillusioned  young  lady,  would  you  enjoy  again 
that  which  busied  you  so  some  years  ago,  which  you 
dared  mention  to  no  one,  which  almost  cost  you  your 
honour  ? It  is  for  you  that  I have  refashioned  this  book 
and  tried  to  make  it  clearer.  After  reading  it,  never 
speak  of  it  without  a little  scornful  turn,  and  throw  it 
in  your  citron  bookcase  behind  the  other  books — I 
should  even  leave  a few  pages  uncut. 

’Tis  not  only  a few  pages  that  will  be  left  uncut  by 
the  imperfect  creature,  who  thinks  himself  philosopher, 
because  he  has  remained  always  stranger  to  those  reckless 
emotions,  which  cause  all  our  happiness  of  a week  to 
depend  upon  a glance.  Some  people,  coming  to  the  age 
of  discretion,  use  the  whole  force  of  their  vanity  to  forget 
that  there  was  a day  when  they  were  able  to  stoop  so 
low  as  to  court  a woman  and  expose  themselves  to  the 
humiliation  of  a refusal : this  book  will  win  their  hatred. 
Among  the  many  clever  people,  whom  I have  seen  con- 
demn this  work,  for  different  reasons  but  all  angrily, 


8 


PREFACE 


those  only  seemed  to  me  ridiculous,  who  had  the  twofold 
conceit  to  pretend  always  to  have  been  above  the  weak- 
ness of  sensibility,  and  yet  to  possess  enough  penetration 
to  judge  a -priori  of  the  degree  of  exactitude  of  a philo- 
sophic treatise,  which  is  nothing  but  an  ordered  descrip- 
tion of  these  weaknesses. 

The  grave  persons,  who  enjoy  in  society  their  reputa- 
tion as  safe  men  with  no  romantic  nonsense,  are  far  nearer 
to  the  understanding  of  a novel,  however  impassioned, 
than  of  a book  of  philosophy,  wherein  the  author  de- 
scribes coldly  the  various  stages  of  the  malady  of  the 
soul  called  Love.  The  novel  moves  them  a little  ; but 
before  the  philosophic  treatise  these  sensible  people  are 
like  blind  men,  who  getting  a description  of  the  pictures 
in  a museum  read  out  to  them,  would  say  to  the  author  : 
“ You  must  agree,  sir,  that  your  work  is  horribly  obscure.” 
What  is  to  happen  if  these  blind  men  chance  to  be  wits, 
established  long  since  in  possession  of  that  title  and  with 
sovereign  claims  to  clairvoyance  ? The  poor  author  will 
be  treated  prettily.  In  fact,  it  is  what  happened  to  him 
at  the  time  of  the  first  edition.  Several  copies  were 
actually  burnt  through  the  raging  vanity  of  very  clever 
people.  I do  not  speak  of  insults  all  the  more  flattering 
for  their  fury:  the  author  was  proclaimed  to  be  coarse, 
immoral,  a writer  for  the  people,  a suspicious  character, 
etc.  In  countries  outworn  by  monarchy,  these  titles  are 
the  surest  reward  for  whoever  thinks  good  to  write  on 
morals  and  does  not  dedicate  his  book  to  the  Mme. 
Dubarry  of  the  day.  Blessed  literature,  if  it  were  not 
in  fashion,  and  interested  those  alone  for  whom  it  was 
written  ! 

In  the  time  of  the  Cid,  Corneille  was  nothing  for 
M.  le  Marquis  de  Danjeau1  but  “ a good  fellow.”  To- 
day the  whole  world  thinks  itself  made  to  read  M.  de 
Lamartine  : so  much  the  better  for  his  publisher,  but 
so  much  the  worse,  and  a hundred  times  the  worse,  for 
1 Vide  p.  120  of  Memoir es  de  Danjeau  (Edition  Genlis). 


PREFACE 


9 

that  great  poet.  In  our  days  genius  offers  accommoda- 
tion to  people  to  whom,  under  penalty  of  losing  caste, 
it  should  never  so  much  as  give  a thought. 

The  laborious  and  active,  very  estimable  and  very 
positive  life  of  a counsellor  of  State,  of  a manufacturer 
of  cotton  goods  or  of  a banker  with  a keen  eye  for  loans 
finds  its  reward  in  millions,  not  in  tender  sensation. 
Little  by  little  the  heart  of  these  gentlemen  ossifies : 
the  positive  and  the  useful  are  for  them  everything,  and 
their  soul  is  closed  to  that  feeling,  which  of  all  others  has 
the  greatest  need  of  our  leisure  and  makes  us  most  unfit 
for  any  rational  and  steady  occupation. 

The  only  object  of  this  preface  is  to  proclaim  that 
this  book  has  the  misfortune  of  being  incomprehensible 
to  all  who  have  not  found  time  to  play  the  fool.  Many 
people  will  feel  offended  and  I trust  they  will  go  no 
further. 


PREFACE1 


I WRITE  for  a hundred  readers  only  and  of  these 
unhappy  charming  beings,  without  hypocrisy  or 
moral  cant,  whom  I would  please,  I know  scarcely  a 
couple.  Of  such  as  lie  to  gain  consideration  as  writers,  I 
take  little  heed.  Certain  fine  ladies  should  keep  to  the 
accounts  of  their  cook  and  the  fashionable  preacher  of 
the  day,  be  it  Massillon  or  Mme.  Necker,  to  be  able  to 
talk  on  these  topics  with  the  women  of  importance  who 
mete  out  consideration.  And  to  be  sure,  in  France  this 
noble  distinction  is  always  to  be  won  by  turning  high 
priest  of  any  fad. 

To  anyone  who  would  read  this  book  I would  say : 
In  all  your  life  have  you  been  unhappy  six  months  for 
love  ? 

Or,  was  your  soul  ever  touched  by  sorrow  not  connected 
with  the  thought  of  a lawsuit,  with  failure  at  the  last 
election,  or  with  having  cut  a less  brilliant  figure  than  usual 
last  season  at  Aix  ? I will  continue  my  indiscretions  and 
ask  if  in  the  year  you  have  read  any  of  those  impudent 
works,  which  compel  the  reader  to  think  ? For  example, 
Emile  of  J.  J.  Rousseau,  or  the  six  volumes  of  Montaigne  ? 
If,  I should  say,  you  have  never  suffered  through  this  in- 
firmity of  noble  minds,  if  you  have  not,  in  defiance  of 
nature,  the  habit  of  thinking  as  you  read,  this  book  will 
give  you  a grudge  against  its  author  : for  it  will  make 
you  suspect  that  there  exists  a certain  happiness,  unknown 
to  you  and  known  to  Mile,  de  Lespinasse. 

[*  May,  1834. — Tr.] 


10 


PREFACE1 


1C0ME  to  beg  indulgence  of  the  reader  for  the 
peculiar  form  of  this  Physiology  of  Love.  It  is 
twenty-eight  years  (in  1842)  since  the  turmoil,  which 
followed  the  fall  of  Napoleon,  deprived  me  of  my 
position.  Two  years  earlier  chance  threw  me,  immedi- 
ately after  the  horrors  of  the  retreat  from  Russia,  into 
the  midst  of  a charming  town,  where  I had  the  enchanting 
prospect  of  passing  the  rest  of  my  days.  In  happy 
Lombardy,  at  Milan,  at  Venice,  the  great,  or  rather 
only,  business  of  life  is  pleasure.  No  attention,  there, 
to  the  deeds  and  movements  of  your  neighbour ; hardly 
a troubled  thought  for  what  is  to  happen  to  you.  If  a 
man  notice  the  existence  of  his  neighbour,  it  does  not 
enter  his  head  to  hate  him.  Take  away  from  the  occupa- 
tions of  a French  provincial  town  jealousy — and  what  is 
left  ? The  absence,  the  impossibility  of  that  cruel 
jealousy  forms  the  surest  part  of  that  happiness,  which 
draws  all  the  provincials  to  Paris. 

Following  the  masked  balls  of  Carnival,  which  in 
1820  was  more  brilliant  than  usual,  the  noise  of  five  or 
six  completely  reckless  proceedings  occupied  the  society 
of  Milan  an  entire  month  ; although  they  are  used  over 
there  to  things  which  in  France  would  pass  for  incredible. 
The  fear  of  ridicule  would  in  this  country  paralyse  such 
fantastic  actions : only  to  speak  of  them  I need  great 
courage. 

One  evening  people  were  discussing  profoundly  the 

[x  1842.  As  Stendhal  died  early  in  that  year,  this  probably  is  his  last 
writing. — Tr.] 


12 


PREFACE 


effects  and  the  causes  of  these  extravagances,  at  the  house 
of  the  charming  Mme.  Pietra  Grua  (6),  who  happened, 
extraordinarily  enough,  not  to  be  mixed  up  with  these 
escapades.  The  thought  came  to  me  that  perhaps  in 
less  than  a year  I should  have  nothing  left  of  all  those 
strange  facts,  and  of  the  causes  alleged  for  them,  but  a 
recollection,  on  which  I could  not  depend.  I got  hold  of 
a concert  programme,  and  wrote  a few  words  on  it  in 
pencil.  A game  of  faro  was  suggested : we  were  thirty 
seated  round  a card-table,  but  the  conversation  was  so 
animated  that  people  forgot  to  play.  Towards  the  close 
of  the  evening  came  in  Col.  Scotti,  one  of  the  most 
charming  men  in  the  Italian  army : he  was  asked  for  his 
quantum  of  circumstances  relative  to  the  curious  facts 
with  which  we  were  busy,  and,  indeed,  his  story  of 
certain  things,  which  chance  had  confided  to  his  know- 
ledge, gave  them  an  entirely  new  aspect.  I took  up 
my  concert  programme  and  added  these  new  circum- 
stances. 

This  collection  of  particulars  on  Love  was  continued  in 
the  same  way,  with  pencil  and  odd  scraps  of  paper, 
snatched  up  in  the  salons , where  I heard  the  anecdotes 
told.  Soon  I looked  for  a common  rule  by  which  to 
recognise  different  degrees  in  them.  Two  months  later 
fear  of  being  taken  for  a Carbonaro  made  me  return  to 
Paris — only  for  a few  months  I hoped,  but  never  again 
have  I seen  Milan,  where  I had  passed  seven  years. 

Pining  with  boredom  at  Paris,  I conceived  the  idea  of 
occupying  myself  again  with  the  charming  country  from 
which  fear  had  driven  me.  I strung  together  my  scraps 
of  paper  and  presented  the  book  to  a publisher.  But 
soon  a difficulty  was  raised : the  printer  declared  that  it 
was  impossible  to  wrork  from  notes  written  in  pencil 
and  I could  see  that  he  found  such  copy  beneath  his 
dignity.  The  printer’s  young  apprentice,  who  brought 
me  back  my  notes,  seemed  quite  ashamed  of  the  more 
than  doubtful  compliment,  which  had  been  put  into 


PREFACE 


r3 

his  mouth : he  knew  how  to  write  and  I dictated  to 
him  my  pencil  notes. 

I understood,  too,  that  discretion  required  me  to 
change  the  proper  names,  and,  above  all,  abridge  the 
anecdotes.  Although  no  one  reads  in  Milan,  the  book, 
if  ever  it  reached  there,  might  have  seemed  a piece  of 
wicked  mischief. 

So  I brought  out  an  ill-fated  volume.  I have  the 
courage  to  own  that  I despised  at  that  period  elegance 
in  style.  I saw  the  young  apprentice  wholly  taken  up 
with  avoiding  sentence-endings  that  were  unmusical  and 
odd  sounds  in  the  arrangement  of  words.  , In  return, 
he  made  throughout  no  scruple  of  changing  details  of 
fact,  difficult  to  express : Voltaire  himself  is  afraid  of 
things  which  are  difficult  to  tell. 

The  Essay  on  Love  had  no  claim  to  merit  except  the 
number  of  the  fine  shades  of  feeling,  which  I begged  the 
reader  to  verify  among  his  memories,  if  he  were  happy 
enough  to  have  any.  But  in  all  this  there  was  something 
much  worse : I was  then,  as  ever,  very  inexperienced  in 
the  department  of  literature  and  the  publisher,  to  whom 
I had  presented  the  MS.,  printed  it  on  bad  paper  and  in 
an  absurd  format.  In  fact  a month  later,  when  I asked 
him  for  news  of  the  book — “ On  peut  dire  qu’il  est 
sacre,”1  he  said,  “ For  no  one  comes  near  it.” 

It  had  never  even  crossed  my  mind  to  solicit  articles 
in  the  papers : such  a thing  would  have  seemed  to  me 
an  ignominy.  And  yet  no  work  was  in  more  pressing 
need  of  recommendation  to  the  patience  of  the  reader. 
Under  the  menace  of  becoming  unintelligible  at  the  very 
outset,  it  was  necessary  to  bring  the  public  to  accept  the 
new  word  “ crystallisation,”  suggested  as  a lively  expres- 
sion for  that  collection  of  strange  fancies,  which  we  weave 
round  our  idea  of  the  loved  one,  as  true  and  even  indubit- 
able realities. 

[x  “One  might  say  it’s  taboo.  . . “Taboo”  is  a poor  equivalent 
for  “ sacre,”  which  means  “ cursed  ” as  well  as  “ blessed.” — Tr.] 


*4 


PREFACE 


At  that  time  wholly  absorbed  in  my  love  for  the 
least  details,  which  I had  lately  observed  in  the  Italy 
of  my  dreams,  I avoided  with  care  every  concession, 
every  amenity  of  style,  which  might  have  rendered  the 
Essay  on  Love  less  peculiarly  fantastic  in  the  eyes  of  men 
of  letters. 

Further,  I was  not  flattering  to  the  public.  Literature 
at  that  time,  all  defaced  by  our  great  and  recent  mis- 
fortunes, seemed  to  have  no  other  interest  than  the 
consolation  of  our  unhappy  pride : it  used  to  rhyme 
“ gloire  ” with  “ victoire ,”  “ guerriers  ” with  “ lauriers”1 
etc.  The  true  circumstances  of  the  situations,  which  it 
pretends  to  treat,  seem  never  to  have  any  attraction  for 
the  tedious  literature  of  that  period  : it  looks  for  nothing 
but  an  opportunity  of  complimenting  that  people, 
enslaved  to  fashion,  whom  a great  man  had  called  a great 
nation,  forgetting  that  they  were  only  great  on  condition 
that  their  leader  was  himself. 

As  the  result  of  my  ignorance  of  the  exigencies  of  the 
humblest  success,  I found  no  more  than  seventeen  readers 
between  1822  and  1833:  it  is  doubtful  whether  the 
Essay  on  Love  has  been  understood  after  twenty  years 
of  existence  by  a hundred  connoisseurs.  A few  have  had 
the  patience  to  observe  the  various  phases  of  this  disease 
in  the  people  infected  with  it  in  their  circle ; for  we 
must  speak  of  it  as  a disease,  in  order  to  understand  that 
passion  which  in  the  last  thirty  years  our  fear  of  ridicule 
has  taken  so  much  trouble  to  hide — it  is  this  way  w'hich 
sometimes  leads  to  its  cure. 

Now  and  now  only,  after  half  a century  of  revolu- 
tions, engrossing  one  after  another  our  whole  attention, 
now  and  now  only  after  five  complete  changes  in  the 
form  and  the  tendencies  of  our  government,  does  the 
revolution  just  begin  to  show  itself  in  our  way  of  living. 
Love,  or  that  which  commonly  appropriates  Love’s 
name  and  fills  its  place,  was  all-powerful  in  the  France  of 
“ Glory  with  victory,  warrior  with  laurel.” — Tr  ] 


PREFACE 


15 

Lewis  XV.  Colonels  were  created  by  the  ladies  of  the 
court ; and  that  court  was  nothing  less  than  the  fairest 
place  in  the  kingdom.  Fifty  years  after,  the  court  is 
no  more ; and  the  gift  of  a licence  to  sell  tobacco  in  the 
meanest  provincial  town  is  beyond  the  power  of  the 
most  surely  established  ladies  of  the  reigning  bourgeoisie 
or  of  the  pouting  nobility. 

It  must  be  owned,  women  are  out  of  fashion.  In 
our  brilliant  salons  the  young  men  of  twenty  affect 
not  to  address  them ; they  much  prefer  to  stand 
round  the  noisy  talker  dealing,  in  a provincial  accent, 
with  the  question  of  the  right  to  vote,  and  to  try  and 
slip  in  their  own  little  word.  The  rich  youths,  who, 
to  keep  up  a show  of  the  good-fellowship  of  past  times, 
take  a pride  in  seeming  frivolous,  prefer  to  talk  horses 
and  play  high  in  the  circles  where  women  are  excluded. 
The  deadly  indifference  which  seems  to  preside  over  the 
relations  of  young  men  and  the  women  of  five-and- 
twenty,  for  whose  presence  society  has  to  thank  the  bore- 
dom of  marriage,  will  bring,  perhaps,  a few  wise  spirits 
to  accept  this  scrupulously  exact  description  of  the 
successive  phases  of  the  malady  called  Love. 

Seeing  the  terrible  change  which  has  plunged  us  into 
the  stagnation  of  to-day,  and  makes  unintelligible  to  us 
the  society  of  1778,  such  as  we  find  it  in  the  letters  of 
Diderot  to  Mile.,  Voland,  his  mistress,  or  in  the  Memoirs 
of  Madame  d’Epinay,  a man  might  ask  the  question, 
which  of  our  successive  governments  has  killed  in  us  the 
faculty  of  enjoying  ourselves,  and  drawn  us  nearer  to 
the  gloomiest  people  on  the  face  of  the  earth  ? The  only 
passable  thing  which  that  people  have  invented — parlia- 
ment and  the  honesty  of  their  parties — we  are  unable 
even  to  copy.  In  return,  the  stupidest  of  their  gloomy 
conceptions,  the  spirit  of  dignity,  has  come  among  us  to 
take  the  place  of  our  French  gaiety,  which  is  to  be  found 
now  only  in  the  five  hundred  balls  in  the  outskirts  of  Paris 
or  in  the  south  of  France,  beyond  Bordeaux. 


i6 


PREFACE 


But  which  of  our  successive  governments  has  cost  us 
the  fearful  misfortune  of  anglicisation  ? Must  we  accuse 
that  energetic  government  of  1793,  which  prevented 
the  foreigners  from  coming  to  pitch  their  camp  in  Mont- 
martre— that  government  which  in  a few  years  will  seem 
heroic  in  our  eyes  and  forms  a worthy  prelude  to  that, 
which  under  Napoleon,  went  forth  to  carry  our  name 
into  all  the  capitals  of  Europe  ? 

We  shall  pass  over  the  well-meaning  stupidity  of  the 
Directoire , illustrated  by  the  talents  of  Carnot  and  the 
immortal  campaign  of  1796-1797  in  Italy. 

The  corruption  of  the  court  of  Barras  still  recalled 
something  of  the  gaiety  of  the  old  order  ; the  graces  of 
Madame  Bonaparte  proved  that  we  had  no  aptitude  at 
that  time  for  the  churlishness  and  charnel-house  of  the 
English. 

The  profound  respect,  which  despite  the  jealousy  of 
the  faubourg  Saint-Germain,  we  could  not  but  feel  for 
the  First  Consul’s  method  of  government,  and  the  men 
whose  superior  merit  adorned  the  society  of  Paris — 
such  as  the  Cretets  and  the  Darus — relieves  the  Empire 
of  the  burden  of  responsibility  for  the  remarkable  change 
which  has  been  effected,  in  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  in  the  character  of  the  French. 

Unnecessary  to  carry  my  investigation  further : the 
reader  will  reflect  and  be  quite  able  to  draw  his  own 
conclusions. 


BOOK  I 


17 


ON  LOVE 


CHAPTER  I 
OF  LOVE 

MY  aim  is  to  comprehend  that  passion,  of  which  every 
sincere  development  has  a character  of  beauty. 
There  are  four  kinds  of  love. 

I.  Passion-love — that  of  the  Portuguese  nun  (i),  of 
Helolse  for  Abelard,  of  Captain  de  Vesel,  of  Sergeant  de 
Cento. 

2.  Gallant  love — that  which  ruled  in  Paris  towards 
1760,  to  be  found  in  the  memoirs  and  novels  of  the 
period,  in  Crebillon,  Lauzun,  Duclos,  Marmontel,  Cham- 
fort,  Mme.  d’Epinay,  etc.  etc. 

’Tis  a picture  in  which  everything,  to  the  very  shadows, 
should  be  rose-colour,  in  which  may  enter  nothing  dis- 
agreeable under  any  pretext  whatsoever,  at  the  cost  of  a 
lapse  of  etiquette,  of  good  taste,  of  refinement,  etc.  A 
man  of  breeding  foresees  all  the  ways  of  acting,  that  he  is 
likely  to  adopt  or  meet  with  in  the  different  phases  of 
this  love.  True  love  is  often  less  refined ; for  that  in 
which  there  is  no  passion  and  nothing  unforeseen,  has 
always  a store  of  ready  wit : the  latter  is  a cold  and 
pretty  miniature,  the  former  a picture  by  the  Carracci. 
Passion-love  carries  us  away  in  defiance  of  all  our  interests, 
gallant  love  manages  always  to  respect  them.  True,  if 
we  take  from  this  poor  love  its  vanity,  there  is  very  little 
left : once  stripped,  it  is  like  a tottering  convalescent, 
scarcely  able  to  drag  himself  along. 

3.  Physical  love.  Out  hunting — a fresh,  pretty  country 

19 


20 


ON  LOVE 


girl  crosses  your  path  and  escapes  into  the  wood.  Every- 
one knows  the  love  founded  on  this  kind  of  pleasure : 
and  all  begin  that  way  at  sixteen,  however  parched  and 
unhappy  the  character. 

4.  Vanity-love.  The  vast  majority  of  men,  especially 
in  France,  desire  and  have  a fashionable  woman,  in  the 
same  way  as  a man  gets  a fine  horse,  as  something  which 
the  luxury  of  a young  man  demands.  Their  vanity  more 
or  less  flattered,  more  or  less  piqued,  gives  birth  to  trans- 
ports of  feelings.  Sometimes  there  is  also  physical  love, 
but  by  no  means  always : often  there  is  not  so  much  as 
physical  pleasure.  A duchess  is  never  more  than  thirty 
for  a bourgeois,  said  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulnes,  and  those 
admitted  to  the  Court  of  that  just  man,  king  Lewis  of 
Holland,  recall  with  amusement  a pretty  woman  from 
the  Hague,  who  could  not  help  finding  any  man  charming 
who  was  Duke  or  Prince.  But  true  to  the  principle  of 
monarchy,  as  soon  as  a Prince  arrived  at  Court,  the  Duke 
was  dismissed  : she  was,  as  it  were,  the  decoration  of  the 
diplomatic  body. 

The  happiest  case  of  this  uninspiring  relationship  is 
that  in  which  to  physical  pleasure  is  added  habit.  In  that 
case  store  of  memories  makes  it  resemble  love  a little ; 
there  is  the  pique  of  self-esteem  and  sadness  on  being 
left ; then,  romance  forces  upon  us  its  ideas  and  we 
believe  that  we  are  in  love  and  melancholy,  for  vanity 
aspires  to  credit  itself  with  a great  passion.  This,  at 
least,  is  certain  that,  whatever  kind  of  love  be  the  source 
of  pleasure,  as  soon  as  the  soul  is  stirred,  the  pleasure  is 
keen  and  its  memory  alluring,  and  in  this  passion,  con- 
trary to  most  of  the  others,  the  memory  of  our  losses 
seems  always  to  exceed  the  bounds  of  what  we  can  hope 
for  in  the  future. 

Sometimes,  in  vanity-love  habit  or  despair  of  finding 
better  produces  a kind  of  friendship,  of  all  kinds  the 
least  pleasant : it  prides  itself  on  its  security,  etc.1 

1 Well-known  dialogue  of  Pont  de  Veyle  with  Madame  du  DefFant, 
at  the  fireside. 


OF  LOVE 


21 


Physical  pleasure,  being  of  our  nature,  is  known  to 
everybody,  but  it  takes  no  more  than  a subordinate 
position  in  the  eyes  of  tender  and  passionate  souls.  If 
they  raise  a laugh  in  the  salons , if  often  they  are  made 
unhappy  in  the  intrigues  of  society,  in  return  the  pleasure 
which  they  feel  must  remain  always  inaccessible  to  those 
hearts,  whose  beat  only  vanity  and  gold  can  quicken. 

A few  virtuous  and  sensitive  women  have  scarcely  a 
conception  of  physical  pleasures : they  have  so  rarely 
risked  them,  if  one  may  use  the  expression,  and  even  then 
the  transports  of  passion-love  caused  bodily  pleasure 
almost  to  be  forgotten. 

There  are  men  victims  and  instruments  of  diabolical 
pride,  of  a pride  in  the  style  of  Alfieri.  Those  people 
who,  perhaps,  are  cruel  because,  like  Nero,  judging  all 
men  after  the  pattern  of  their  own  heart,  they  are  always 
a-tremble — such  people,  I say,  can  attain  physical 
pleasure  only  in  so  far  as  it  is  accompanied  by  the  greatest 
possible  exercise  of  pride,  in  so  far,  that  is  to  say,  as  they 
practise  cruelties  on  the  companion  of  their  pleasures. 
Hence  the  horrors  of  Justine  (2).  At  any  rate  such 
men  have  no  sense  of  security. 

To  conclude,  instead  of  distinguishing  four  different 
forms  of  love,  we  can  easily  admit  eight  or  ten  shades 
of  difference.  Perhaps  mankind  has  as  many  ways  of 
feeling  as  of  seeing  ; but  these  differences  of  nomen- 
clature alter  in  no  degree  the  judgments  which  follow. 
Subject  to  the  same  laws,  all  forms  of  love,  which  can 
be  seen  here  below,  have  their  birth,  life  and  death  or 
ascend  to  immortality.1 

1 This  book  is  a free  translation  of  an  Italian  MS.  of  M.  Lisio  Visconti, 
a young  man  of  the  highest  distinction,  who  died  recently  at  Volterra, 
the  place  of  his  birth.  The  day  of  his  sudden  death  he  gave  the  translator 
permission  to  publish  his  Essay  on  Love,  if  means  were  found  to  shape  it 
to  a decorous  form.  Castel  Fiorentino,  June  10th,  1819. 


CHAPTER  II 


OF  THE  BIRTH  OF  LOVE 

THIS  is  what  takes  place  in  the  soul : — 

i.  Admiration. 

2.  A voice  within  says:  “ What  pleasure  to  kiss,  to  be 
kissed.” 

3.  Hope  (3). 

We  study  her  perfections : this  is  the  moment  at 

which  a woman  should  yield  to  realise  the  greatest 
possible  physical  pleasure.  In  the  case  even  of  the  most 
reserved  women,  their  eyes  redden  at  the  moment  when 
hope  is  conceived : the  passion  is  so  strong,  the  pleasure 
so  keen,  that  it  betrays  itself  by  striking  signs. 

4.  Love  is  born. 

To  love — that  is  to  have  pleasure  in  seeing,  touching, 
feeling,  through  all  the  senses  and  as  near  as  possible,’  an 
object  to  be  loved  and  that  loves  us. 

5.  The  first  crystallisation  begins. 

The  lover  delights  in  decking  with  a thousand  per- 
fections the  woman  of  whose  love  he  is  sure : he  dwells 
on  all  the  details  of  his  happiness  with  a satisfaction 
that  is  boundless.  He  is  simply  magnifying  a superb 
bounty  just  fallen  to  him  from  heaven, — he  has  no 
knowledge  of  it  but  the  assurance  of  its  possession. 

Leave  the  mind  of  a lover  to  its  natural  movements 
for  twenty-four  hours,  and  this  is  what  you  will  find. 

At  the  salt  mines  of  Salzburg  a branch  stripped  of  its 
leaves  by  winter  is  thrown  into  the  abandoned  depths 
of  the  mine  ; taken  out  two  or  three  months  later  it  is 
covered  with  brilliant  crystals ; the  smallest  twigs,  those 

22 


OF  THE  BIRTH  OF  LOVE 


23 

no  stouter  than  the  leg  of  a sparrow,  are  arrayed  with  an 
infinity  of  sparkling,  dazzling  diamonds ; it  is  impossible 
to  recognise  the  original  branch. 

I call  crystallisation  the  operation  of  the  mind  which, 
from  everything  which  is  presented  to  it,  draws  the  con- 
clusion that  there  are  new  perfections  in  the  object  of 
its  love. 

A traveller  speaks  of  the  freshness  of  the  orange  groves 
at  Genoa,  on  the  sea  coast,  during  the  scorching  days  of 
summer. — What  pleasure  to  enjoy  that  freshness  with  her ! 

One  of  your  friends  breaks  his  arm  in  the  hunting- 
field. — How  sweet  to  be  nursed  by  a woman  you  love  ! 
To  be  always  with  her,  to  see  every  moment  her  love  for 
you,  would  make  pain  almost  a blessing : and  starting 
from  the  broken  arm  of  your  friend,  you  conclude  with 
the  absolute  conviction  of  the  angelic  goodness  of  your 
mistress.  In  a word,  it  is  enough  to  think  of  a perfection 
in  order  to  see  it  in  that  which  you  love. 

This  phenomenon,  which  I venture  to  call  crystallisa- 
tion, is  the  product  of  human  nature,  which  commands 
us  to  enjoy  and  sends  warm  blood  rushing  to  our  brain ; 
it  springs  from  the  conviction  that  the  pleasures  of  love 
increase  with  the  perfections  of  its  object,  and  from  the 
idea  : “ She  is  mine.”  The  savage  has  no  time  to  go 

beyond  the  first  step.  He  is  delighted,  but  his  mental 
activity  is  employed  in  following  the  flying  deer  in  the 
forest,  and  with  the  flesh  with  which  he  must  as  soon  as 
possible  repair  his  forces,  or  fall  beneath  the  axe  of  his 
enemy. 

At  the  other  pole  of  civilisation,  I have  no  doubt  that 
a sensitive  woman  may  come  to  the  point  of  feeling  no 
physical  pleasure  but  with  the  man  she  loves.1  It  is  the 
opposite  with  the  savage.  But  among  civilised  peoples, 
woman  has  leisure  at  her  disposal,  while  the  savage  is  so 
pressed  with  necessary  occupations  that  he  is  forced  to 

1 If  this  peculiarity  is  not  observed  in  the  case  of  man,  the  reason  is 
that  on  his  side  there  is  no  modesty  to  be  for  a moment  sacrificed. 


24 


ON  LOVE 


treat  his  female  as  a beast  of  burden.  If  the  females 
of  many  animals  are  more  fortunate,  it  is  because  the 
subsistence  of  the  males  is  more  assured. 

But  let  us  leave  the  backwoods  again  for  Paris.  A man 
of  passion  sees  all  perfections  in  that  which  he  loves. 
And  yet  his  attention  may  still  be  distracted  ; for  the 
soul  has  its  surfeit  of  all  that  is  uniform,  even  of  perfect 
bliss.1 

This  is  what  happens  to  distract  his  attention : — 

6.  Birth  of  Doubt. 

After  ten  or  twelve  glances,  or  some  other  series  of 
actions,  which  can  last  as  well  several  days  as  one  moment, 
hopes  are  first  given  and  later  confirmed.  The  lover, 
recovered  from  his  first  surprise  and,  accustomed  to  his 
happiness  or  guided  by  theory,  which,  always  based  on 
the  most  frequent  cases,  must  only  take  light  women 
into  account — the  lover,  I say,  demands  more  positive 
proofs  and  wishes  to  press  his  good  fortune. 

He  is  parried  with  indifference,2  coldness,  even  anger, 
if  he  show  too  much  assurance — in  France  a shade  of 
irony,  which  seems  to  say : “ You  are  not  quite  as  far 
as  you  think.” 

A woman  behaves  in  this  way,  either  because  she  wakes 
up  from  a moment  of  intoxication,  and  obeys  the  word 
of  modesty,  which  she  trembles  to  have  infringed,  or 
simply  through  prudence  or  coquetry. 


1 That  is  to  say,  that  the  same  tone  of  existence  can  give  but  one 
instant  of  perfect  happiness ; but  with  a man  of  passion,  his  mood  changes 
ten  times  a day. 

s The  coup  de  foudre  (thunderbolt  from  the  blue),  as  it  was  called  in 
the  novels  of  the  seventeenth  century,  which  disposes  of  the  fate  of  the 
hero  and  his  mistress,  is  a movement  of  the  soul,  which  for  having  been 
abused  by  a host  of  scribblers,  is  experienced  none  the  less  in  real  life. 
It  comes  from  the  impossibility  of  this  defensive  manoeuvre.  The  woman 
who  loves  finds  too  much  happiness  in  the  sentiment,  which  she  feels,  to 
carry  through  successful  deception : tired  of  prudence,  she  neglects  all 
precaution  and  yields  blindly  to  the  passion  of  loving.  Diffidence  makes 
the  coup  de  foudre  impossible. 


OF  THE  BIRTH  OF  LOVE 


25 

The  lover  comes  to  doubt  of  the  happiness,  to  which 
he  looked  forward : he  scans  more  narrowly  the  reasons 
that  he  fancied  he  had  for  hope. 

He  would  like  to  fall  back  upon  the  other  pleasures  of 
life,  and  finds  them  annihilated.  He  is  seized  with  the 
fear  of  a terrible  disaster,  and  at  the  same  time  with  a 
profound  preoccupation. 

7.  Second  crystallisation. 

Here  begins  the  second  crystallisation,  which  forms 
diamonds  out  of  the  proofs  of  the  idea — “ She  loves  me.” 

The  night  which  follows  the  birth  of  doubts,  every 
quarter  of  an  hour,  after  a moment  of  fearful  unhappi- 
ness, the  lover  says  to  himself — “ Yes,  she  loves  me  ” — and 
crystallisation  has  its  turn,  discovering  new  charms. 
Then  doubt  with  haggard  eye  grapples  him  and  brings 
him  to  a standstill,  blank.  His  heart  forgets  to  beat — 
“ But  does  she  love  me  ? ” he  says  to  himself.  Between 
these  alternatives,  agonising  and  rapturous,  the  poor 
lover  feels  in  his  very  soul : “ She  would  give  me 
pleasures,  which  she  alone  can  give  me  and  no  one  else.” 

It  is  the  palpability  of  this  truth,  this  path  on  the 
extreme  edge  of  a terrible  abyss  and  within  touch,  on 
the  other  hand,  of  perfect  happiness,  which  gives  so 
great  a superiority  to  the  second  crystallisation  over  the 
first. 

The  lover  wanders  from  moment  to  moment  between 
these  three  ideas: — 

1.  She  has  every  perfection. 

2.  She  loves  me. 

3.  What  means  of  obtaining  the  greatest  proof  of  her 
love  ? 

The  most  agonising  moment  of  love,  still  young,  is 
when  it  sees  the  false  reasoning  it  has  made,  and  must 
destroy  a whole  span  of  crystallisation. 

Doubt  is  the  natural  outcome  of  crystallisation. 


CHAPTER  III 


OF  HOPE 

AVERY  small  degree  of  hope  is  enough  to  cause  the 
birth  of  love. 

In  the  course  of  events  hope  may  fail — love  is  none 
the  less  born.  With  a firm,  daring  and  impetuous 
character,  and  in  an  imagination  developed  by  the  troubles 
of  life,  the  degree  of  hope  may  be  smaller : it  can  come 
sooner  to  an  end,  without  killing  love. 

If  a lover  has  had  troubles,  if  he  is  of  a tender,  thought- 
ful character,  if  he  despairs  of  other  women,  and  if  his 
admiration  is  intense  for  her  whom  he  loves,  no  ordinary 
pleasure  will  succeed  in  distracting  him  from  the  second 
crystallisation.  He  will  prefer  to  dream  of  the  most 
doubtful  chance  of  pleasing  her  one  day,  than  to  accept 
from  an  ordinary  woman  all  she  could  lavish. 

The  woman  whom  he  loves  would  have  to  kill  his 
hope  at  that  period,  and  (note  carefully,  not  later)  in 
some  inhuman  manner,  and  overwhelm  him  with  those 
marks  of  patent  contempt,  which  make  it  impossible  to 
appear  again  in  public. 

Far  longer  delays  between  all  these  periods  are  com- 
patible with  the  birth  of  love. 

It  demands  much  more  hope  and  much  more  sub- 
stantial hope,  in  the  case  of  the  cold,  the  phlegmatic 
and  the  prudent.  The  same  is  true  of  people  no  longer 
young. 

It  is  the  second  crystallisation  which  ensures  love’s 
duration,  for  then  every  moment  makes  it  clear  that  the 
question  is — be  loved  or  die.  Long  months  of  love  have 

26 


OF  HOPE 


27 


turned  into  habit  this  conviction  of  our  every  moment 
— how  find  means  to  support  the  thought  of  loving  no 
more  ? The  stronger  the  character  the  less  is  it  subject 
to  inconstancy. 

This  second  crystallisation  is  almost  entirely  absent 
from  the  passions  inspired  by  women  who  yield  too  soon. 

After  the  crystallisations  have  worked — especially  the 
second,  which  is  far  the  stronger — the  branch  is  no  longer 
to  be  recognised  by  indifferent  eyes,  for  : — 

(1)  It  is  adorned  with  perfections  which  they  do  not 
see. 

(2)  It  is  adorned  with  perfections  which  for  them  are 
not  perfections  at  all. 

The  perfection  of  certain  charms,  mentioned  to  him 
by  an  old  friend  of  his  love,  and  a certain  hint  of  liveliness 
noticed  in  her  eye,  are  a diamond  in  the  crystallisation1 

1 I have  called  this  essay  a book  of  Ideology.  My  object  was  to 
indicate  that,  though  it  is  called  “ Love,”  it  is  not  a novel  and  still  less 
diverting  like  a novel.  I apologise  to  philosophers  for  having  taken  the 
word  Ideology  : I certainly  did  not  intend  to  usurp  a title  which  is  the 
right  of  another.  If  Ideology  is  a detailed  description  of  ideas  and  all 
the  parts  which  can  compose  ideas,  the  present  book  is  a detailed  descrip- 
tion of  all  the  feelings  which  can  compose  the  passion  called  Love.  Pro- 
ceeding, I draw  certain  consequences  from  this  description  : for  example, 
the  manner  of  love’s  cure.  I know  no  word  to  say  in  Greek  “ discourse 
on  ideas.”  I might  have  had  a word  invented  by  one  of  my  learned 
friends,  but  I am  already  vexed  enough  at  having  to  adopt  the  new  word 
crystallisation,  and,  if  this  essay  finds  readers,  it  is  quite  possible  that 
they  will  not  allow  my  new  word  to  pass.  To  avoid  it,  I own,  would  have 
been  the  work  of  literary  talent : I tried,  but  without  success.  Without 
this  word,  which  expresses,  according  to  me,  the  principal  phenomenon 
of  that  madness  called  Love — madness,  however,  which  procures  for  man 
the  greatest  pleasures  which  it  is  given  to  the  beings  of  his  species  to  taste 
on  earth — without  the  use  of  this  word,  which  it  were  necessary  to  replace 
at  every  step  by  a paraphrase  of  considerable  length,  the  description, 
which  I give  of  what  passes  in  the  head  and  the  heart  of  a man  in  love, 
would  have  become  obscure,  heavy  and  tedious,  even  for  me  who  am  the 
author  : what  would  it  have  been  for  the  reader  ? 

I invite,  therefore,  the  reader,  whose  feelings  the  word  crystallisation 
shocks  too  much,  to  close  the  book.  To  be  read  by  many  forms  no  part 
of  my  prayers — happily,  no  doubt,  for  me.  I should  love  dearly  to  give 


28 


ON  LOVE 


of  Del  Rosso.  These  ideas,  conceived  during  the  evening, 
keep  him  dreaming  all  the  night. 

An  unexpected  answer,  which  makes  me  see  more 
clearly  a tender,  generous,  ardent,  or,  as  it  is  popularly 
called,  romantic1  soul,  preferring  to  the  happiness  of 
kings  the  simple  pleasures  of  a walk  with  the  loved  one 
at  midnight  in  a lonely  wood,  gives  me  food  for  dreams2 
for  a whole  night. 

Let  him  call  my  mistress  a prude : I shall  call  his  a 
whore. 

great  pleasure  to  thirty  or  forty  people  of  Paris,  whom  I shall  never  see, 
but  for  whom,  without  knowing,  I have  a blind  affection.  Some  young 
Madame  Roland,  for  example,  reading  her  book  in  secret  and  precious 
quickly  hiding  it,  at  the  least  noise,  in  the  drawers  of  her  father’s  bench — 
her  father  the  engraver  of  watches.  A soul  like  that  of  Madame  Roland 
will  forgive  me,  I hope,  not  only  the  word  crystallisation,  used  to  express 
that  act  of  madness  which  makes  us  perceive  every  beauty,  every  kind 
of  perfection,  in  the  woman  whom  we  begin  to  love,  but  also  several 
too  daring  ellipses  besides.  The  reader  has  only  to  take  a pencil  and  write 
between  the  lines  the  five  or  six  words  which  are  missing. 

1 All  his  actions  had  at  first  in  my  eyes  that  heavenly  air,  which  makes 
of  a man  a being  apart,  and  differentiates  him  from  all  others.  I thought 
that  I could  read  in  his  eyes  that  thirst  for  a happiness  more  sublime, 
that  unavowed  melancholy,  which  yearns  for  something  better  than  we 
find  here  below,  and  which  in  all  the  trials  that  fortune  and  revolution 
can  bring  upon  a romantic  soul, 

. . . still  prompts  the  celestial  sight 
For  which  we  wish  to  live  or  dare  to  die. 

(Last  letter  of  Bianca  to  her  mother.  Forll,  1817.) 

2 It  is  in  order  to  abridge  and  to  be  able  to  paint  the  interior  of  the 
soul,  that  the  author,  using  the  formula  of  the  first  person,  alleges  several 
feelings  to  which  he  is  a stranger  : personally,  he  never  had  any  which 
would  be  worth  quoting. 


CHAPTER  IV 


IN  a soul  completely  detached — a girl  living  in  a 
lonely  castle  in  the  depth  of  the  country — the 
slightest  astonishment  may  bring  on  a slight  admiration, 
and,  if  the  faintest  hope  intervene,  cause  the  birth  of 
love  and  crystallisation  (4). 

In  this  case  love  delights,  to  begin  with,  just  as  a 
diversion. 

Surprise  and  hope  are  strongly  supported  by  the  need, 
felt  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  of  love  and  sadness.  It  is  well 
known  that  the  restlessness  of  that  age  is  a thirst  for  love, 
and  a peculiarity  of  thirst  is  not  to  be  extremely  fastidious 
about  the  kind  of  draught  that  fortune  offers. 

Let  us  recapitulate  the  seven  stages  of  love.  They 
are : — 

1.  Admiration. 

2.  What  pleasure,  etc. 

3.  Hope. 

4.  Love  is  born. 

5.  First  crystallisation. 

6.  Doubt  appears. 

7.  Second  crystallisation. 

Between  Nos.  1 and  2 may  pass  one  year.  One  month 
between  Nos.  2 and  3 ; but  if  hope  does  not  make  haste 
in  coming,  No.  2 is  insensibly  resigned  as  a source  of 
unhappiness. 

A twinkling  of  the  eye  between  Nos.  3 and  4. 

There  is  no  interval  between  Nos.  4 and  5.  The 
sequence  can  only  be  broken  by  intimate  intercourse. 

Some  days  may  pass  between  Nos.  5 and  6,  according 
to  the  degree  to  which  the  character  is  impetuous  and  used 
to  risk,  but  between  Nos.  6 and  7 there  is  no  interval. 

29 


CHAPTER  V 


MAN  is  not  free  to  avoid  doing  that  which  gives 
him  more  pleasure  to  do  than  all  other  possible 
actions.1 

Love  is  like  the  fever  (5),  it  is  born  and  spends  itself 
without  the  slightest  intervention  of  the  will.  That  is 
one  of  the  principal  differences  between  gallant-love  and 
passion-love.  And  you  cannot  give  yourself  credit  for 
the  fair  qualities  in  what  you  really  love,  any  more  than 
for  a happy  chance. 

Further,  love  is  of  all  ages : observe  the  passion  of 
Madame  du  Defiant  for  the  graceless  Horace  Walpole. 
A more  recent  and  more  pleasing  example  is  perhaps  still 
remembered  in  Paris. 

In  proof  of  great  passions  I admit  only  those  of  their 
consequences,  which  are  exposed  to  ridicule : timidity, 
for  example,  proves  love.  I am  not  speaking  of  the 
bashfulness  of  the  enfranchised  schoolboy. 

1 As  regards  crime,  it  belongs  to  good  education  to  inspire  remorse, 
which,  foreseen,  acts  as  a counterbalance. 


30 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  CRYSTALS  OF  SALZBURG 

CRYSTALLISATION  scarcely  ceases  at  all  during 
love.  This  is  its  history:  so  long  as  all  is  well 
between  the  lover  and  the  loved,  there  is  crystallisation 
by  imaginary  solution  ; it  is  only  imagination  w-hich 
makes~him  sure  that  such  and  such  perfection  exists  in 
the  woman  he  loves.  But  after  intimate  intercourse, 
fears  are  continually  coming  to  life,  to  be  allayed  only 
by  more  real  solutions.  Thus  his  happiness  is  only  uni- 
form in  itsToufce.  Each  day  has  a different  bloom. 

If  the  loved  one  yields  to  the  passion,  which  she  shares, 
and  falls  into  the  enormous  error  of  killing  fear  by  the 
eagerness  of  her  transports,1 'crystallisation  ceases  for  an 
instant ; but  when  love  loses  some  of  its  eagerness,  that 
is  to  say  some  of  its  fears,  it  acquires  the  charm  of  entire 
abandon,  of  confidence  without  ' limits : a sense  of 

sweet  familiarity  comes  to  take  the  edge  from  all  the 
pains  of  life,  and  give  to  fruition  another  kind  of  interest. 

Are  you  deserted  ? — Crystallisation  begins  again ; and 
every  glance  of  admiration,  the  sight  of  every  happiness 
which  she  can  give  you,  and  of  which  you  thought  no 
longer,  leads  up  to  this  agonising  reflexion  : “ That  happi- 
ness, that  charm,  I shall  meet  it  no  more.  It  is  lost  and 
the  fault  is  mine  ! ” You  may  look  for  happiness  in  sensa- 
tions of  another  kind.  Your  heart  refuses  to  feel  them. 
Imagination  depicts  for  you  well  enough  the  physical 
situation,  mounts  you  well  enough  on  a fast  hunter  in 

1 Diane  de  Poitiers,  in  the  Princesse  de  Cleves,  by  Mme.  de  Lafayette. 


3i 


ON  LOVE 


3^ 

Devonshire  woods.1  But  you  feel  quite  certain  that  there 
you  would  find  no  pleasure.  It  is  the  optical  illusion 
produced  by  a pistol  shot. 

Gaming  has  also  its  crystallisation,  provoked  by  the 
use  of  the  sum  of  money  to  be  won. 

The  hazards  of  Court  life,  so  regretted  by  the  nobility, 
under  the  name  of  Legitimists,  attached  themselves  so 
dearly  only  by  the  crystallisation  they  provoked.  No 
courtier  existed  who  did  not  dream  of  the  rapid  fortune 
of  a Luynes  or  a Lauzun,  no  charming  woman  who  did 
not  see  in  prospect  the  duchy  of  Madame  de  Polignac. 
No  rationalist  government  can  give  back  that  crystallisa- 
tion. Nothing  is  so  anti-imagination  as  the  government 
of  the  United  States  of  America.  We  have  noticed  that 
to  their  neighbours,  the  savages,  crystallisation  is  almost 
unknown.  The  Romans  scarcely  had  an  idea  of  it,  and 
discovered  it  only  for  physical  love. 

Hate  has  its  crystallisation  : as  soon  as  it  is  possible  to 
hope  for  revenge,  hate  begins  again. 

If  every  creed,  in  which  there  is  absurdity  and  inconse- 
quence, tends  to  place  at  the  head  of  the  party  the  people 
who  are  most  absurd,  that  is  one  more  of  the  effects  of 
crystallisation.  Even  in  mathematics  (observe  the 
Newtonians  in  1740)  crystallisation  goes  on  in  the  mind, 
which  cannot  keep  before  it  at  every  moment  every 
part  of  the  demonstration  of  that  W'hich.  it  believes. 

In  proof,  see  the  destiny  of  the  great  German  philo- 
sophers, whose  immortality,  proclaimed  so  often,  never 
manages  to  last  longer  than  thirty  or  forty  years. 

It  is  the  impossibility  of  fathoming  the  “ why  ? ” of 
our  feelings,  which  makes  the  most  reasonable  man  a 
fanatic  in  music. 

In  face  of  certain  contradictions  it  is  not  possible  to  be 
convinced  at  will  that  we  are  right. 

1 If  you  could  imagine  being  happy  in  that  position,  crystallisation 
would  have  deferred  to  your  mistress  the  exclusive  privilege  of  giving 
you  that  happiness. 


CHAPTER  VII 


DIFFERENCES  BETWEEN  THE  BIRTH  OF  LOVE  IN 
THE  TWO  SEXES 

WOMEN  attach,  themselves  by  the  favours  they  dis- 
pense. As  nineteen-twentieths  of  their  ordinary 
dreams  are  relative  to  love,  after  intimate  intercourse 
these  day-dreams  group  themselves  round  a single  object ; 
they  have  to  justify  a course  so  extraordinary,  so  decisive, 
so  contrary  to  all  the  habits  of  modesty.  Men  have  no 
such  task  ; and,  besides,  the  imagination  of  women  has 
time  to  work  in  detail  upon  the  sweetness  of  such 
moments. 

As  love  casts  doubts  upon  things  the  best  proved,  the 
woman  who,  before  she  gave  herself,  was  perfectly  sure 
that  her  lover  was  a man  above  the  crowd,  no  sooner 
thinks  she  has  nothing  left  to  refuse  him,  than  she  is  all 
fears  lest  he  was  only  trying  to  put  one  more  woman  on 
his  list. 

Then,  and  then  only  appears  the  second  crystallisation, 
which,  being  hand  in  hand  with  fear,  is  far  the  stronger.1 

Yesterday  a queen,  to-day  she  sees  herself  a slave.  This 
state  of  soul  and  mind  is  encouraged  in  a woman  by  the 
nervous  intoxication  resulting  from  pleasures,  which  are 
just  so  much  keener  as  they  are  more  rare.  Besides,  a 
woman  before  her  embroidery  frame — insipid  work 
which  only  occupies  the  hand — is  thinking  about  her 
lover  ; while  he  is  galloping  with  his  squadron  over  the 

1 This  second  crystallisation  is  wanting  in  light  women,  who  are  far 
away  from  all  these  romantic  ideas. 

D 


33 


34  ON  LOVE 

plain,  where  leading  one  wrong  movement  would  bring 
him  under  arrest. 

I should  think,  therefore,  that  the  second  crystallisa- 
tion must  be  far  stronger  in  the  case  of  women,  because 
theirs  are  more  vivid  fears ; their  vanity  and  honour  are 
compromised;  distraction  at  least  is  more  difficult. 

A woman  cannot  be  guided  by  the  habit  of  being 
reasonable,  which  I,  Man,  working  at  things  cold  and 
reasonable  for  six  hours  every  day,  contract  at  my  office  per- 
force. Even  outside  love,  women  are  inclined  to  abandon 
themselves  to  their  imagination  and  habitual  high  spirits : 
faults,  therefore,  in  the  object  of  their  love  ought  more 
rapidly  to  disappear. 

Women  prefer  emotion  to  reason — that  is  plain:  in 
virtue  of  the  futility  of  our  customs,  none  of  the  affairs 
of  the  family  fall  on  their  shoulders,  so  that  reason  is  of 
no  use  to  them  and  they  never  find  it  of  any  practical 
good. 

On  the  contrary,  to  them  it  is  always  harmful ; for  the 
only  object  of  its  appearance  is  to  scold  them  for  the 
pleasures  of  yesterday,  or  forbid  them  others  for  to- 
morrow. 

Give  over  to  your  wife  the  management  of  your  deal- 
ings with  the  bailiffs  of  two  of  your  farms — I wager  the 
accounts  will  be  kept  better  than  by  you,  and  then,  sorry 
tyrant,  you  will  have  the  right  at  least  to  complain,  since 
to  make  yourself  loved  you  do  not  possess  the  talent. 
As  soon  as  women  enter  on  general  reasonings,  they  are 
unconsciously  making  love.  But  in  matters  of  detail 
they  take  pride  in  being  stricter  and  more  exact 
than  men.  Half  the  small  trading  is  put  into  the  hands 
of  women,  who  acquit  themselves  of  it  better  than  their 
husbands.  It  is  a well-known  maxim  that,  if  you  are 
speaking  business  with  a woman,  you  cannot  be  too  serious. 

This  is  because  they  are  at  all  times  and  in  all  places 
greedy  of  emotion. — Observe  the  pleasures  of  burial 
rites  in  Scotland. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


This  was  her  favoured  fairy  realm,  and  here  she  erected  her  aerial 
palaces. — Bride  of  Lammermoor , Chap.  III. 

GIRL  of  eighteen  has  not  enough  crystallisation 


in  her  power,  forms  desires  too  limited  by  her 
narrow  experiences  of  the  things  of  life,  to  be  in  a posi- 
tion to  love  with  as  much  passion  as  a woman  of  twenty- 
eight^). 

This  evening  I was  exposing  this  doctrine  to  a clever 
woman,  who  maintains  the  contrary.  “ A girl’s  imagina- 
tion being  chilled  by  no  disagreeable  experience,  and  the 
prime  of  youth  burning  with  all  its  force,  any  man  can 
be  the  motive  upon  which  she  creates  a ravishing  image. 
Every  time  that  she  meets  her  lover,  she  will  enjoy,  not 
what  he  is  in  reality,  but  that  image  of  delight  which  she 
has  created  for  herself. 

“ Later,  she  is  by  this  lover  and  by  all  men  disillu- 
sioned, experience  of  the  dark  reality  has  lessened  in  her 
the  power  of  crystallisation,  mistrust  has  clipped  the 
wings  of  imagination.  At  the  instance  of  no  man  on 
earth,  were  he  a very  prodigy,  could  she  form  so  irre- 
sistible an  image : she  could  love  no  more  with  the  same 
fire  of  her  first  youth.  And  as  in  love  it  is  only  the 
illusion  formed  by  ourselves  which  we  enjoy,  never  can 
the  image,  which  she  may  create  herself  at  twenty-eight, 
have  the  brilliance  and  the  loftiness  on  which  first  love 
was  built  at  sixteen : the  second  will  always  seem  of  a 
degenerate  species.” 

“ No,  madam.  Evidently  it  is  the  presence  of  mis- 
trust, absent  at  sixteen,  which  must  give  to  this  second 
love  a different  colour.  In  early  youth  love  is  like  an 
immense  stream,  which  sweeps  all  before  it  in  its  course, 


ON  LOVE 


36 

and  we  feel  that  we  cannot  resist  it.  Now  at  twenty- 
eight  a gentle  heart  knows  itself : it  knows  that,  if  it  is 
still  to  find  some  happiness  in  life,  from  love  it  must  be 
claimed  ; and  this  poor,  torn  heart  becomes  the  seat  of 
a fearful  struggle  between  love  and  mistrust.  Crystallisa- 
tion proceeds  gradually ; but  the  crystallisation,  which 
emerges  triumphant  from  this  terrible  proof,  in  which 
the  soul  in  all  its  movements  never  loses  sight  of  the 
most  awful  danger,  is  a thousand  times  more  brilliant  and 
more  solid  than  crystallisation  at  sixteen,  in  which  every- 
thing, by  right  of  age,  is  gaiety  and  happiness.” 

“ In  this  way  love  should  be  less  gay  and  more  passion- 
ate.”1 

This  conversation  (Bologna,  9 March,  1820),  bringing 
into  doubt  a point  which  seemed  to  me  so  clear,  makes 
s me  believe  more  and  more,  that  a man  can  say  practi- 
cally nothing  with  any  sense  on  that  which  happens  in 
the  inmost  heart  of  a woman  of  feeling : as  to  a coquet 
it  is  different — we  also  have  senses  and  vanity. 

The  disparity  between  the  birth  of  love  in  the  two 
sexes  would  seem  to  come  from  the  nature  of  their  hopes, 
which  are  different.  One  attacks,  the  other  defends ; 
one  asks,  the  other  refuses ; one  is  daring,  the  other  timid. 

The  man  reflects : “ Can  I please  her  ? Will  she  love 
me  ? ” 

The  woman : “ When  he  says  he  loves  me,  isn’t  it  for 
sport  ? Is  his  a solid  character  ? Can  he  answer  to  him- 
self for  the  length  of  his  attachments  ? ” Thus  it  is  that 
many  women  regard  and  treat  a young  man  of  twenty- 
three  as  a child.  If  he  has  gone  through  six  campaigns, 
he  finds  everything  different — he  is  a young  hero. 

On  the  man’s  side,  hope  depends  simply  on  the  actions 
of  that  which  he  loves — nothing  easier  to  interpret.  On 
the  side  of  woman,  hope  must  rest  on  moral  considera- 
tions— very  difficult  rightly  to  appreciate. 

1 Epicurus  said  that  discrimination  is  necessary  to  participation  in 
pleasure. 


CRYSTALLISATION 


37 

Most  men  demand  such  a proof  of  love,  as  to  their 
mind  dissipates  all  doubts ; Ivomen  are  not  so  fortunate 
as  to  be  able  to  find  such  a proof.  And  there  is  in  life 
this  trouble  for  lovers — that  what  makes  the  security  and 
happiness  of  one,  makes  the  danger  and  almost  the 
humiliation  of  the  other. 

In  love,  men  run  the  risk  of  the  secret  torture  of  the 
soul — women  expose  themselves  to  the  scoffs  of  the  public ; 
they  are  more  timid,  and,  besides,  for  them  public  opinion 
means  much  more. — “ Sois  consideree,  il  le  faut.”1 

They  have  not  that  sure  means  of  ours  of  mastering 
public  opinion  by  risking  for  an  instant  their  life. 

Women,  then,  must  naturally  be  far  more  mistrust- 
ful. In  virtue  of  their  habits,  all  the  mental  movements, 
which  form  periods  in  the  birth  of  love,  are  in  their  case 
more  mild,  more  timid,  more  gradual  and  less  decided. 
There  is  therefore  a greater  disposition  to  constancy  ; 
they  will  less  easily  withdraw  from  a crystallisation  once 
begun. 

A woman,  seeing  her  lover,  reflects  with  rapidity,  or 
yields  to  the  happiness  of  loving — happiness  from  which 
she  is  recalled  in  a disagreeable  manner,  if  he  make  the 
least  attack  ; for  at  the  call  to  arms  all  pleasures  must  be 
abandoned. 

The  lover’s  part  is  simpler — he  looks  in  the  eyes  of  the 
woman  he  loves ; a single  smile  can  raise  him  to  the 
zenith  of  happiness,  and  he  looks  continually  for  it.2 

1 Remember  the  maxim  of  Beaumarchais : “ Nature  has  said  to  woman: 

‘ Be  fair  if  you  can,  wise  if  you  wish,  but  be  estimed — you  must.’  No 
admiration  in  France  without  estime — equally  no  love.” 

2 Quando  leggemmo  il  disiato  riso 
Esser  baciato  da  cotanto  amante, 

Costui  che  mai  da  me  non  fia  diviso, 

La  bocca  mi  baccid  tutto  tremante. 

Dante,  Inf.,  Cant.  V. 

[“  When  we  read  how  the  desired  smile  was  kissed  by  such  a lover,  he, 
who  never  from  me  shall  be  divided,  on  my  mouth  kissed  me  all  trem- 
bling.”—Tr.] 


ON  LOVE 


38 

The  length  of  the  siege  humiliates  a man  ; on  the  con- 
trary it  makes  a woman’s  glory. 

A woman  is  capable  of  loving  and,  for  an  entire  year, 
not  saying  more  than  ten  or  twelve  words  to  the  man 
whom  she  loves.  At  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  keeps 
note  how  often  she  has  seen  him — twice  she  went  with 
him  to  the  theatre,  twice  she  sat  near  him  at  dinner, 
three  times  he  bowed  to  her  out  walking. 

One  evening  during  some  game  he  kissed  her  hand : 
it  is  to  be  noticed  that  she  allows  no  one  since  to  kiss  it 
under  any  pretext,  at  the  risk  even  of  seeming  peculiar. 

In  a man,  Leonore  (6)  remarked  to  me,  such  conduct 
would  be  called  a feminine  way  of  love. 


CHAPTER  IX 


I MAKE  every  possible  effort  to  be  dry.  I would 
impose  silence  upon  my  heart,  which  feels  that  it 
has  much  to  say.  When  I think  that  I have  noted  a 
truth,  I always  tremble  lest  I have  written  only  a sigh. 


39 


CHAPTER  X 


JN  proof  of  crystallisation  I shall  content  myself  with 
recalling  the  following  anecdote.  A young  woman 
hears  that  Edward,  her  relation,  who  is  to  return  from 
the  Army,  is  a youth  of  great  distinction  ; she  is  assured 
that  he  loves  her  on  her  reputation  ; but  he  will  want 
probably  to  see  her,  before  making  a proposal  and  asking 
her  of  her  parents.  She  notices  a young  stranger  at 
church,  she  hears  him  called  Edward,  she  thinks  of  nothing 
but  him — she  is  in  love  with  him.  Eight  days  later  the 
real  Edward  arrives ; he  is  not  the  Edward  of  church. 
She  turns  pale  and  will  be  unhappy  for  ever,  if  she  is 
forced  to  marry  him. 

That  is  what  the  poor  of  understanding  call  an  example 
of  the  senselessness  of  love. 

A man  of  generosity  lavishes  the  most  delicate  benefits 
upon  a girl  in  distress.  No  one  could  have  more  virtues, 
and  love  was  about  to  be  born  ; but  he  wears  a shabby 
hat,  and  she  notices  that  he  is  awkward  in  the  saddle. 
The  girl  confesses  with  a sigh  that  she  cannot  return  the 
warm  feelings,  which  he  evidently  has  for  her. 

A man  pays  his  attentions  to  a lady  of  the  greatest 
respectability.  She  hears  that  this  gentleman  has  had 
physical  troubles  of  a comical  nature  : she  finds  him 
intolerable.  And  yet  she  had  no  intention  of  giving 
herself  to  him,  and  these  secret  troubles  in  no  way 
blighted  his  understanding  or  amiability.  It  is  simply 
that  crystallisation  was  made  impossible. 

In  order  that  a human  being  may  delight  in  deifying 
an  object  to  be  loved,  be  it  taken  from  the  Ardennes 
forest  or  picked  up  at  a Bal  de  Coulon,  that  it  seems  to 


40 


CRYSTALLISATION 


4i 


him  perfect  is  the  first  necessity — perfect  by  no  means 
in  every  relation,  but  in  every  relation  in  which  it  is  seen 
at  the  time.  Perfect  in  all  respects  it  will  seem  only  after 
several  days  of  the  second  crystallisation.  The  reason  is 
simple — then  it  is  enough  to  have  the  idea  of  a perfec- 
tion in  order  to  see  it  in  the  object  of  our  love. 

Beauty  is  only  thus  far  necessary  to  the  birth  of  love — 
ugliness  must  not  form  an  obstacle.  The  lover  soon 
comes  to  find  his  mistress  beautiful,  such  as  she  is,  without 
thinking  of  ideal  beauty. 

The  features  which  make  up  the  ideally  beautiful 
would  promise,  if  he  could  see  them,  a quantity  of 
happiness,  if  I may  use  the  expression,  which  I would 
express  by  the  number  one  ; whereas  the  features  of  his 
mistress,  such  as  they  are,  promise  him  one  thousand 
units  of  happiness. 

Before  the  birth  of  love  beauty  is  necessary  as  adver- 
tisement : it  predisposes  us  towards  that  passion  by  means 
of  the  praises,  which  we  hear  given  to  the  object  of  our 
future  love.  Very  eager  admiration  makes  the  smallest 
hope  decisive. 

In  gallant-love,  and  perhaps  in  passion-love  during  the 
first  five  minutes,  a woman,  considering  a possible  lover, 
gives  more  weight  to  the  way  in  which  he  is  seen  by  other 
women,  than  to  the  way  in  which  she  sees  him  herself. 

Hence  the  success  of  princes  and  officers.1  The  pretty 
women  of  the  Court  of  old  king  Lewis  XIV  were  in  love 
with  that  sovereign. 

1 Those  who  remarked  in  the  countenance  of  this  young  hero  a 
dissolute  audacity  mixed  with  extreme  haughtiness  and  indifference 
to  the  feelings  of  others,  could  not  yet  deny  to  his  countenance  that 
sort  of  comeliness,  which  belongs  to  an  open  set  of  features  well  formed 
by  nature,  modelled  by  art  to  the  usual  rules  of  courtesy,  yet  so  far  frank 
and  honest  that  they  seemed  as  if  they  disclaimed  to  conceal  the  natural 
working  of  the  soul.  Such  an  expression  is  often  mistaken  for  manly 
frankness,  when  in  truth  it  arises  from  the  reckless  indifference  of  a liber- 
tine disposition,  conscious  of  superiority  of  birth  and  wealth,  or  of  some 
other  adventitious  advantage  totally  unconnected  with  personal  merit. 

Ivanhoe , Chap.  VIII 


42 


ON  LOVE 


Great  care  should  be  taken  not  to  offer  facilities  to 
hope,  before  it  is  certain  that  admiration  is  there.  It 
might  give  rise  to  dullness,  which  makes  love  for  ever 
impossible,  and  which,  at  an y rate,  is  only  to  be  cured 
by  the  sting  of  wounded  pride. 

No  one  feels  sympathy  for  the  simpleton,  nor  for  a 
smile  which  is  always  there  ; hence  the  necessity  in  society 
of  a veneer  of  rakishness— that  is,  the  privileged  manner. 
From  too  debased  a plant  we  scorn  to  gather  even  a 
smile.  In  love,  our  vanity  disdains  a victory  which  is  too 
easy  ; and  in  all  matters  man  is  not  given  to  magnifying 
the  value  of  an  offering. 


CHAPTER  XI 


CRYSTALLISATION  having  once  begun,  we  enjoy 
with  delight  each  new  beauty  discovered  in  that 
which  we  love. 

But  what  is  beauty  ? It  is  the  appearance  of  an  apti- 
tude for  giving  you  pleasure. 

The  pleasures  of  all  individuals  are  different  and  often 
opposed  to  one  another  ; which  explains  very  well  how 
that,  which  is  beauty  for  one  individual,  is  ugliness  for 
another.  (Conclusive  example  of  Del  Rosso  and  Lisio, 
1st  January,  1820.) 

The  right  way  to  discover  the  nature  of  beauty  is  to 
look  for  the  nature  of  the  pleasures  of  each  individual. 
Del  Rosso,  for  example,  needs  a woman  who  allows  a 
certain  boldness  of  movement,  and  who  by  her  smiles 
authorises  considerable  licence  ; a woman  who  at  each 
instant  holds  physical  pleasures  before  his  imagina- 
tion, and  who  excites  in  him  the  power  of  pleasing, 
while  giving  him  at  the  same  time  the  means  of  display- 
ing it. 

Apparently,  by  love  Del  Rosso  understands  physical 
love,  and  Lisio  passion-love.  Obviously  they  are  not 
likely  to  agree  about  the  word  beauty.1 

The  beauty  then,  discovered  by  you,  being  the  appear- 
ance of  an  aptitude  for  giving  you  pleasure,  and  pleasure 
being  different  from  pleasure  as  man  from  man,  the 
crystallisation  formed  in  the  head  of  each  individual 
must  bear  the  colour  of  that  individual’s  pleasures. 

1 My  Beauty,  promise  of  a character  useful  to  viy  soul,  is  above  the 
attraction  of  the  senses ; that  attraction  is  only  one  particular  kind  of 
attraction  (7).  1815. 


43 


44 


ON  LOVE 


A man’s  crystallisation  of  his  mistress,  or  her  beauty , 
is  no  other  thing  than  the  collection  of  all  the  satisfac- 
tions of  all  the  desires,  which  he  can  have  felt  successively 
at  her  instance. 


CHAPTER  XII 


FURTHER  CONSIDERATION  OF  CRYSTALLISATION 

WHY  do  we  enjoy  with  delight  each  new  beauty, 
discovered  in  that  which  we  love  ? 

It  is  because  each  new  beauty  gives  the  full  and  entire 
satisfaction  of  a desire.  You  wish  your  mistress  gentle — 
she  is  gentle  ; and  then  you  wish  her  proud  like  Emilie 
in  Corneille,  and  although  these  qualities  are  probably 
incompatible,  instantly  she  appears  with  the  soul  of  a 
Roman.  That  is  the  moral  reason  which  makes  love  the 
strongest  of  the  passions.  In  all  others,  desires  must 
accommodate  themselves  to  cold  realities ; here  it  is 
realities  which  model  themselves  spontaneously  upon 
desires.  Of  all  the  passions,  therefore,  it  is  in  love  that 
violent  desires  find  the  greatest  satisfaction. 

There  are  certain  general  conditions  of  happiness, 
whose  influence  extends  over  every  fulfilment  of  particu- 
lar desires : — 

i.  She  seems  to  belong  to  you,  for  you  only  can  make 
her  happy. 

2.  She  is  the  judge  of  your  worth.  This  condition 
was  very  important  at  the  gallant  and  chivalrous  Courts 
of  Francis  I and  Henry  II,  and  at  the  elegant  Court  of 
Lewis  XV.  Under  a constitutional  and  rationalist 
government  women  lose  this  range  of  influence 
entirely. 

3.  For  a romantic  heart — The  loftier  her  soul,  the  more 
sublime  will  be  the  pleasures  that  await  her  in  your  arms, 
and  the  more  purified  of  the  dross  of  all  vulgar  considera- 
tions. 


45 


46 


ON  LOVE 


The  majority  of  young  Frenchmen  are,  at  eighteen, 
disciples  of  Rousseau  ; for  them  this  condition  of  happi- 
ness is  important. 

In  the  midst  of  operations  so  apt  to  mislead  our  desire 
of  happiness,  there  is  no  keeping  cool. 

For,  the  moment  he  is  in  love,  the  steadiest  man  sees 
no  object  such  as  it  is.  His  own  advantages  he  minimises, 
and  magnifies  the  smallest  favours  of  the  loved  one. 
Fears  and  hopes  take  at  once  a tinge  of  the  romantic. 
(Wayward.)  He  no  longer  attributes  anything  to  chance  ; 
he  loses  the  perception  of  probability  ; in  its  effect  upon 
his  happiness  a thing  imagined  is  a thing  existent.1 

A terrible  symptom  that  you  are  losing  your  head : — 
you  think  of  some  little  thing  which  is  difficult  to  make 
out ; you  see  it  white,  and  interpret  that  in  favour  of 
your  love  ; a moment  later  you  notice  that  actually  it 
is  black,  and  still  you  find  it  conclusively  favourable  to 
your  love. 

Then  indeed  the  soul,  a prey  to  mortal  uncertainties, 
feels  keenly  the  need  of  a friend.  But  there  is  no  friend 
for  the  lover.  The  Court  knew  that ; and  it  is  the 
source  of  the  only  kind  of  indiscretion  which  a woman 
of  delicacy  might  forgive. 

1 There  is  a physical  cause — a mad  impulse,  a rush  of  blood  to  the 
brain,  a disorder  in  the  nerves  and  in  the  cerebral  centre.  Observe  the 
transitory  courage  of  stags  and  the  spiritual  state  of  a soprano.  Physio- 
logy, in  1922,  will  give  us  a description  of  the  physical  side  of  this  pheno- 
menon. I recommend  this  to  the  attention  of  Dr.  Edwards  (8). 


CHAPTER  XIII 


OF  THE  FIRST  STEP;  OF  THE  FASHIONABLE 
WORLD;  OF  MISFORTUNES 

THAT  which  is  most  surprising  in  the  passion  of  love 
is  the  first  step — the  extravagance  of  the  change, 
which  comes  over  a man’s  brain. 

The  fashionable  world,  with  its  brilliant  parties,  is  of 
service  to  love  in  favouring  this  first  step. 

It  begins  by  changing  simple  admiration  (i)  into  tender 
admiration  (ii) — what  pleasure  to  kiss  her,  etc. 

In  a salon  lit  by  thousands  of  candles  a fast  valse  throws 
a fever  upon  young  hearts,  eclipses  timidity,  swells  the 
consciousness  of  power — in  fact,  gives  them  the  claring 
to  love.  For  to  see  a lovable  object  is  not  enough:  on 
the  contrary,  the  fact  that  it  is  extremely  lovable  dis- 
courages a gentle  soul — he  must  see  it,  if  not  in  love 
with  him,1  at  least  despoiled  of  its  majesty. 

Who  takes  it  into  his  head  to  become  the  paramour  of 
a queen  unless  the  advances  are  from  her  ?2 

Thus  nothing  is  more  favourable  to  the  birth  of  love 
than  a life  of  irksome  solitude,  broken  now  and  again  by 
a long-desired  ball.  This  is  the  plan  of  wise  mothers 
who  have  daughters. 

The  real  fashionable  world,  such  as  was  found  at  the 

1 Hence  the  possibility  of  passions  of  artificial  origin — those  of  Benedict 
and  of  Beatrice  (Shakespeare). 

2 Cf.  the  fortunes  of  Struensee  in  Brown’s  Northern  Courts,  3 vols., 
1819. 


47 


ON  LOVE 


48 

Court  of  France,1  and  which  since  1780, 2 I think,  exists 
no  more,  was  unfavourable  to  love,  because  it  made  the 
solitude  and  the  leisure,  indispensable  to  the  work  of 
crystallisation,  almost  impossible. 

Court  life  gives  the  habit  of  observing  and  making  a 
great  number  of  subtle  distinctions,  and  the  subtlest 
distinction  may  be  the  beginning  of  an  admiration  and 
of  a passion.® 

When  the  troubles  of  love  are  mixed  with  those  of 
another  kind  (the  troubles  of  vanity — if  your  mistress 
offend  your  proper  pride,  your  sense  of  honour  or  per- 
sonal dignity — troubles  of  health,  money  and  political 
persecution,  etc.),  it  is  only  in  appearance  that  love  is 
increased  by  these  annoyances.  Occupying  the  imagina- 
tion otherwise,  they  prevent  crystallisation  in  love  still 
hopeful,  and  in  happy  love  the  birth  of  little  doubts. 
When  these  misfortunes  have  departed,  the  sweetness 
and  the  folly  of  love  return. 

Observe  that  misfortunes  favour  the  birth  of  love  in 
light  and  unsensitive  characters,  and  that,  after  it  is 
born,  misfortunes,  which  existed  before,  are  favourable  to 
it  ; in  as  much  as  the  imagination,  recoiling  from  the 
gloomy  impressions  offered  by  all  the  other  circumstances 
of  life,  throws  itself  wholly  into  the  work  of  crystallisation. 

1 See  the  letters  of  Madame  du  Defiant,  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse, 
Bezenval,  Lauzun,  the  Memoirs  of  Madame  d’Epinay,  the  Diction- 
naire  des  Etiquettes  of  Madame  de  Genlis,  the  Memoirs  of  Danjeau 
and  Horace  Walpole. 

2 Unless,  perhaps,  at  the  Court  of  Petersburg. 

3 See  Saint-Simon  and  Werther.  However  gentle  and  delicate  are 
the  solitary,  their  soul  is  distracted,  and  part  of  their  imagination  is  busy 
in  foreseeing  the  world  of  men.  Force  of  character  is  one  of  the  charms 
which  most  readily  seduces  the  truly  feminine  heart.  Hence  the  success 
of  serious  young  officers.  Women  well  know  how  to  make  the  distinction 
between  force  of  character  and  the  violence  of  those  movements  of 
passion,  the  possibility  of  which  they  feel  strongly  in  their  own  hearts. 
The  most  distinguished  women  are  sometimes  duped  by  a little  char- 
latanism in  this  matter.  It  can  be  used  without  fear,  as  soon  as  crystallisa- 
tion is  seen  to  have  begun. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


HE  following  point,  which  will  be  disputed,  I offer 


only  to  those — shall  I say  unhappy  enough  ? — to 
have  loved  with  passion  during  long  years,  and  loved  in 
the  face  of  invincible  obstacles : — 

The  sight  of  all  that  is  extremely  beautiful  in  nature 
and  in  art  recalls,  with  the  swiftness  of  lightning,  the 
memory  of  that  which  we  love.  It  is  by  the  process  of 
the  jewelled  branch  in  the  mines  of  Salzburg,  that 
everything  in  the  world  which  is  beautiful  and  lofty  con- 
tributes to  the  beauty  of  that  which  we  love,  and  that 
forthwith  a sudden  glimpse  of  delight  fills  the  eyes  with 
tears.  In  this  way,  love  and  the  love  of  beauty  give  life 
mutually  to  one  another. 

One  of  life’s  miseries  is  that  the  happiness  of  seeing 
and  talking  to  the  object  of  our  love  leaves  no  distinct 
memories  behind.  The  soul,  it  seems,  is  too  troubled  by 
its  emotions  for  that  which  causes  or  accompanies  them 
to  impress  it.  The  soul  and  its  sensations  are  one  and 
the  same.  It  is  perhaps  because  these  pleasures  cannot 
be  used  up  by  voluntary  recollection,  that  they  return 
again  and  again  with  such  force,  as  soon  as  ever  some 
object  comes  to  drag  us  from  day-dreams  devoted  to 
the  woman  we  love,  and  by  some  new  connexion1  to 
bring  her  still  more  vividly  to  our  memory. 

A dry  old  architect  used  to  meet  her  in  society  every 
evening.  Following  a natural  impulse,  and  without 
paying  attention  to  what  I was  saying  to  her,2  I one  day 
sang  his  praises  in  a sentimental  and  pompous  strain, 


1 Scents. 


* See  note  I,  p.  28. 


E 


49 


5° 


ON  LOVE 


which  made  her  laugh  at  me.  I had  not  the  strength 
to  say  to  her  : “ He  sees  you  every  evening.” 

So  powerful  is  this  sensation  that  it  extends  even  to 
the  person  of  my  enemy,  who  is  always  at  her  side.  When 
I see  her,  she  reminds  me  of  Leonore  so  much,  that  at 
the  time  I cannot  hate  her,  however  much  I try. 

It  looks  as  if,  by  a curious  whim  of  the  heart,  the  charm, 
which  the  woman  we  love  can  communicate,  were  greater 
than  that  which  she  herself  possesses.  The  vision  of  that 
distant  city,  where  we  saw  her  a moment,1  throws  us  into 
dreams  sweeter  and  more  profound  than  would  her 
very  presence.  It  is  the  effect  of  harsh  treatment. 

The  day-dreams  of  love  cannot  be  scrutinised.  I 
have  observed  that  I can  re-read  a good  novel  every  three 
years  with  the  same  pleasure.  It  gives  me  feelings  akin 
to  the  kind  of  emotional  taste,  which  dominates  me  at 
the  moment,  or  if  my  feelings  are  nil,  makes  for  variety 
in  my  ideas.  Also,  I can  listen  with  pleasure  to  the  same 
music,  but,  in  this,  memory  must  not  intrude.  The 
imagination  should  be  affected  and  nothing  else ; if,  at 
the  twentieth  representation,  an  opera  gives  more  plea- 
sure, it  is  either  because  the  music  is  better  understood, 
or  because  it  also  brings  back  the  feeling  it  gave  at  the 
first. 

As  to  new  lights,  which  a novel  may  throw  upon  our 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  I still  remember  clearly 
the  old  ones,  and  am  pleased  even  to  find  them  noted  in 
the  margin.  But  this  kind  of  pleasure  pertains  to  the 
novels,  in  so  far  as  they  advance  me  in  the  knowledge 
of  man,  and  not  in  the  least  to  day-dreaming — the 
veritable  pleasure  of  novels.  Such  day-dreaming  is 
inscrutable.  To  watch  it  is  for  the  present  to  kill  it,  for 
you  fall  into  a philosophical  analysis  of  pleasure ; and  it 

1 Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria. — Dante,  Inf.,  V (Francesca). 

[No  greater  sorrow  than  to  remember  happy  times  in  misery. — Tr.] 


MEMORIES 


Si 

is  killing  it  still  more  certainly  for  the  future,  for  nothing 
is  surer  to  paralyse  the  imagination  than  the  appeal  to 
memory  (9).  If  I find  in  the  margin  a note,  depicting 
my  feelings  on  reading  Old  Mortality  three  years  ago  in 
Florence,  I am  plunged  immediately  into  the  history  of 
my  life,  into  an  estimate  of  the  degree  of  happiness  at 
the  two  epochs,  in  short,  into  the  deepest  problems  of 
philosophy — and  then  good-bye  for  a long  season  to  the 
unchecked  play  of  tender  feelings. 

Every  great  poet  with  a lively  imagination  is  timid, 
he  is  afraid  of  men,  that  is  to  say,  for  the  interruptions 
and  troubles  with  which  they  can  invade  the  delight  of 
his  dreams.  He  fears  for  his  concentration.  Men  come 
along  with  their  gross  interests  to  drag  him  from  the 
gardens  of  Armida,  and  force  him  into  a fetid  slough : 
only  by  irritating  him  can  they  fix  his  attention  on  them- 
selves. It  is  this  habit  of  feeding  his  soul  upon  touching 
dreams  and  this  horror  of  the  vulgar  which  draws  a great 
artist  so  near  to  love. 

The  more  of  the  great  artist  a man  has  in  him,  the 
more  must  he  wish  for  titles  and  honours  as  a bulwark. 


CHAPTER  XV 


SUDDENLY  in  the  midst  of  the  most  violent  and 
the  most  thwarted  passion  come  moments,  when  a 
man  believes  that  he  is  in  love  no  longer — as  it  were  a 
spring  of  fresh  water  in  the  middle  of  the  sea.  To  think 
of  his  mistress  is  no  longer  very  much  pleasure,  and, 
although  he  is  worn-out  by  the  severity  of  her  treatment, 
the  fact  that  everything  in  life  has  lost  its  interest  is  a 
still  greater  misery.  After  a manner  of  existence  which, 
fitful  though  it  was,  gave  to  all  nature  a new  aspect, 
passionate  and  absorbing,  now  follows  the  dreariest  and 
most  despondent  void. 

It  may  be  that  your  last  visit  to  the  woman,  whom  you 
love,  left  you  in  a situation,  from  which,  once  before, 
your  imagination  had  gathered  the  full  harvest  of  sensa- 
tion. For  example,  after  a period  of  coldness,  she  has 
treated  you  less  badly,  letting  you  conceive  exactly  the 
same  degree  of  hope  and  by  the  same  external  signs  as 
on  a previous  occasion — all  this  perhaps  unconsciously. 
Imagination  picks  up  memory  and  its  sinister  warnings 
by  the  way,  and  instantly  crystallisation1  ceases. 

1 First,  I am  advised  to  cut  out  this  word ; next,  if  I fail  in  this  for 
want  of  literary  power,  to  repeat  again  and  again  that  I mean  by  crystallisa- 
tion a certain  fever  in  the  imagination,  which  transforms  past  recognition 
what  is,  as  often  as  not,  a quite  ordinary  object,  and  makes  of  it  a thing 
apart.  A man  who  looks  to  excite  this  fever  in  souls,  which  know  no  other 
path  but  vanity  to  reach  their  happiness,  must  tie  his  necktie  well  and 
constantly  give  his  attention  to  a thousand  details,  which  preclude  all 
possibility  of  unrestraint.  Society  women  own  to  the  effect,  denying  at 
the  same  time  or  not  seeing  the  cause. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


In  a small  port,  the  name  of  which  I forget,  near  Perpignan,  25th 
February,  1822. 1 

HIS  evening  I have  just  found  out  that  music, 


when  it  is  perfect,  puts  the  heart  into  the  same 
state  as  it  enjoys  in  the  presence  of  the  loved  one — that 
is  to  say,  it  gives  seemingly  the  keenest  happiness  existing 
on  the  face  of  the  earth. 

If  this  were  so  for  all  men,  there  would  be  no  more 
favourable  incentive  to  love. 

But  I had  already  remarked  at  Naples  last  year  that 
perfect  music,  like  perfect  pantomime,  makes  me  think 
of  that  which  is  at  the  moment  the  object  of  my  dreams, 
and  that  the  ideas,  which  it  suggests  to  me,  are  excellent : 
at  Naples,  it  was  on  the  means  of  arming  the  Greeks. 

Now  this  evening  I cannot  deceive  myself — I have  the 
misfortune  of  being  too  great  an  admirer  of  milady 


And  perhaps  the  perfect  music,  which  I have  had  the 
luck  to  hear  again,  after  two  or  three  months  of  privation, 
although  going  nightly  to  the  Opera,  has  simply  had 
the  effect,  which  I recognised  long  ago — I mean  that  of 
producing  lively  thoughts  on  what  is  already  in  the 
heart. 

March  4th — eight  days  later. 

I dare  neither  erase  nor  approve  the  preceding 
observation.  Certain  it  is  that,  as  I wrote  it,  I read  it 
in  my  heart.  If  to-day  I bring  it  into  question,  it  is 


1 Copied  from  the  diary  of  Lisio. 
s [Written  thus  in  English  by  Stendhal.— Tr.] 


S3 


54 


ON  LOVE 


because  I have  lost  the  memory  of  what  I saw  at  that 
time. 

The  habit  of  hearing  music  and  dreaming  its  dreams 
disposes  towards  love.  A sad  and  gentle  air,  provided  it 
is  not  too  dramatic,  so  that  the  imagination  is  forced  to 
dwell  on  the  action,  is  a direct  stimulant  to  dreams  of 
love  and  a delight  for  gentle  and  unhappy  souls : for 
example,  the  drawn-out  passage  on  the  clarionet  at  the 
beginning  of  the  quartet  in  Bianca  and  Faliero  (io), 
and  the  recitative  of  La  Camporesi  towards  the  middle 
of  the  quartet. 

A lover  at  peace  with  his  mistress  enjoys  to  distraction 
Rossini’s  famous  duet  in  Armida  and  Rinaldo,  depicting 
so  justly  the  little  doubts  of  happy  love  and  the  moments 
of  delight  which  follow  its  reconciliations.  It  seems  to 
him  that  the  instrumental  part,  which  comes  in  the  middle 
of  the  duet,  at  the  moment  when  Rinaldo  wishes  to  fly, 
and  represents  in  such  an  amazing  way  the  conflict  of 
the  passions,  has  a physical  influence  upon  his  heart  and 
touches  it  in  reality.  On  this  subject  I dare  not  say  what 
I feel ; I should  pass  for  a madman  among  people  of  the 
north. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


BEAUTY  DETHRONED  BY  LOVE 

ALBERIC  meets  in  a box  at  the  theatre  a woman 
more  beautiful  than  his  mistress  (I  beg  to  be 
allowed  here  a mathematical  valuation) — that  is  to  say, 
her  features  promise  three  units  of  happiness  instead  of 
two,  supposing  the  quantity  of  happiness  given  by  perfect 
beauty  to  be  expressed  by  the  number  four. 

Is  it  surprising  that  he  prefers  the  features  of  his 
mistress,  which  promise  a hundred  units  of  happiness 
for  him  ? Even  the  minor  defects  of  her  face,  a small- 
pox mark,  for  example,  touches  the  heart  of  the  man 
who  loves,  and,  when  he  observes  them  even  in  another 
woman,  sets  him  dreaming  far  away.  What,  then,  when 
he  sees  them  in  his  mistress  ? Why,  he  has  felt  a thousand 
sentiments  in  presence  of  that  small-pox  mark,  senti- 
ments for  the  most  part  sweet,  and  all  of  the  greatest 
interest ; and  now,  such  as  they  are,  they  are  evoked 
afresh  with  incredible  vividness  by  the  sight  of  this 
sign,  even  in  the  face  of  another  woman. 

If  ugliness  thus  comes  to  be  preferred  and  loved,  it  is 
because  in  this  case  ugliness  is  beauty.1  A man  was 
passionately  in  love  with  a woman,  very  thin  and  scarred 
with  small-pox : death  bereft  him  of  her.  At  Rome, 
three  years  after,  he  makes  friends  with  two  women,  one 
more  lovely  than  the  day,  the  other  thin,  scarred  with 

1 Beauty  is  only  the  promise  of  happiness.  The  happiness  of  a Greek 
was  different  to  that  of  a Frenchman  of  1822.  See  the  eyes  of  the  Medici 
Venus  and  compare  them  with  the  eyes  of  the  Magdalen  of  Pordenone 
(in  the  possession  of  M.  de  Sommariva.) 

55 


ON  LOVE 


56 

small-pox,  and  thereby,  if  you  will,  quite  ugly.  There 
he  is,  at  the  end  of  a week,  in  love  with  the  ugly  one — 
and  this  week  he  employs  in  effacing  her  ugliness  with 
his  memories  ; and  with  a very  pardonable  coquetry 
the  lesser  beauty  did  not  fail  to  help  him  in  the  operation 
with  a slight  whip-up  of  the  pulse.1  A man  meets  a 
woman  and  is  offended  by  her  ugliness ; soon,  if  she  is 
unpretentious,  her  expression  makes  him  forget  the  defects 
of  her  features ; he  finds  her  amiable — he  conceives  that 
one  could  love  her.  A week  later  he  has  hopes ; another 
week  and  they  are  taken  from  him  ; another  and  he’s 
mad. 

1 If  one  is  sure  of  the  love  of  a woman,  one  examines  to  see  if  she  is 
more  or  less  beautiful ; if  one  is  uncertain  of  her  heart,  there  is  no  time 
to  think  of  her  face. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


LIMITATIONS  OF  BEAUTY 

AN  analogy  is  to  be  seen  at  the  theatre  in  the 
reception  of  the  public’s  favourite  actors:  the 
spectators  are  no  longer  conscious  of  the  beauty  or  ugli- 
ness which  the  actors  have  in  reality.  Lekain,  for  all  his 
remarkable  ugliness,  had  a harvest  of  broken  hearts — 
Garrick  also.  There  are  several  reasons  for  this ; the 
principal  being  that  it  was  no  longer  the  actual  beauty 
of  their  features  or  their  ways  which  people  saw,  but 
emphatically  that  which  imagination  was  long  since 
used  to  lend  them,  as  a return  for,  and  in  memory 
of,  all  the  pleasure  they  had  given  it.  Why,  take  a 
comedian — his  face  alone  raises  a laugh  as  he  first 
walks  on. 

A girl  going  for  the  first  time  to  the  Frangais  would 
perhaps  feel  some  antipathy  to  Lekain  during  the  first 
scene  ; but  soon  he  was  making  her  weep  or  shiver — and 
how  resist  him  as  Tancrede1  or  Orosmane  ? 

If  his  ugliness  were  still  a little  visible  to  her  eyes,  the 
fervour  of  an  entire  audience,  and  the  nervous  effect 
produced  upon  a young  heart,2  soon  managed  to  eclipse 

1 See  Madame  de  Stael  in  Delphine,  I think ; there  you  have  the 
artifice  of  plain  women. 

2 I should  be  inclined  to  attribute  to  this  nervous  sympathy  the 
prodigious  and  incomprehensible  effect  of  fashionable  music.  (Sympathy 
at  Dresden  for  Rossini,  1821.)  As  soon  as  it  is  out  of  fashion,  it  becomes 
no  worse  for  that,  and  yet  it  ceases  to  have  any  effect  upon  perfectly 
ingenuous  girls.  Perhaps  it  used  to  please  them,  as  also  stimulating 
young  men  to  fervour. 

Madame  de  S4vign£  says  to  her  daughter  (Letter  ioa,  May  6,  167a)  s 
" Lully  surpassed  himself  in  his  royal  musk  j that  beautiful 

57 


ON  LOVE 


58 

it.  If  anything  was  still  heard  about  his  ugliness,  it  was 
mere  talk;  but  not  a word  of  it — Lekain’s  lady  enthu- 
siasts could  be  heard  to  exclaim  “ He’s  lovely  ! ” 

Remember  that  beauty  is  the  expression  of  character, 
or,  put  differently,  of  moral  habits,  and  that  consequently 
it  is  exempt  from  all  passion.  Now  it  is  passion  that 
we  want.  Beauty  can  only  supply  us  with  probabilities 
about  a woman,  and  probabilities,  moreover,  based  on  her 
capacity  for  self-possession  ; while  the  glances  of  your 
mistress  with  her  small-pox  scars  are  a delightful  reality, 
which  destroys  all  the  probabilities  in  the  world. 

was  still  further  enlarged  : there  was  a Libera  at  which  all  eyes  were 
full  of  tears.” 

It  is  as  impossible  to  doubt  the  truth  of  this  effect,  as  to  refuse  wit  or 
refinement  to  Madame  de  Sevigne.  Lully’s  music,  which  charmed  her, 
would  make  us  run  away  at  present ; in  her  day,  his  music  encouraged 
crystallisation — it  makes  it  impossible  in  ours. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


LIMITATIONS  OF  BEAUTY—  {continued) 
WOMAN  of  quick  fancy  and  tender  heart,  but 


timid  and  cautious  in  her  sensibility,  who  the  day 
after  she  appears  in  society,  passes  in  review  a thousand 
times  nervously  and  painfully  all  that  she  may  have  said 
or  given  hint  of — such  a woman,  I say,  grows  easily  used 
to  want  of  beauty  in  a man : it  is  hardly  an  obstacle  in 
rousing  her  affection. 

It  is  really  on  the  same  principle  that  you  care  next 
to  nothing  for  the  degree  of  beauty  in  a mistress,  whom 
you  adore  and  who  repays  you  with  harshness.  You  have 
very  nearly  stopped  crystallising  her  beauty,  and  when 
your  friend  in  need  tells  you  that  she  isn’t  pretty,  you 
are  almost  ready  to  agree.  Then  he  thinks  he  has  made 
great  way. 

My  friend,  brave  Captain  Trab,  described  to  me  this 
evenrng  his  feelings  on  seeing  Mirabeau  once  upon  a 
time.  No  one  looking  upon  that  great  man  felt  a dis- 
agreeable sensation  in  the  eyes — that  is  to  say,  found  him 
ugly.  People  were  carried  away  by  his  thundering  words ; 
they  fixed  their  attention,  they  delighted  in  fixing  their 
attention,  only  on  what  was  beautiful  in  his  face.  As 
he  had  practically  no  beautiful  features  (in  the  sense  of 
sculpturesque  or  picturesque  beauty)  they  minded  only 
what  beauty  he  had  of  another  kind,  the  beauty  of  ex- 
pression.1 

1 That  is  the  advantage  of  being  d la  mode.  Putting  aside  the  defects 
of  a face  which  are  already  familiar,  and  no  longer  have  any  effect  upon 


59 


6o 


ON  LOVE 


While  attention  was  blind  to  all  traces  of  ugliness, 
picturesquely  speaking,  it  fastened  on  the  smallest  pass- 
able details  with  fervour — for  example,  the  beauty  of  his 
vast  head  of  hair.  If  he  had  had  horns,  people  would 
have  thought  them  lovely.1 

the  imagination,  the  public  take  hold  of  one  of  the  three  following  ideas 
of  beauty  : — 

(1)  The  people — of  the  idea  of  wealth. 

(2)  The  upper  classes — of  the  idea  of  elegance,  material  or  moral. 

(3)  The  Court— of  the  idea  : “ My  object  is  to  please  the  women.” 

Almost  all  take  hold  of  a mixture  of  all  three.  The  happiness  attached 

to  the  idea  of  riches  is  linked  to  a refinement  in  the  pleasure  which  the 
idea  of  elegance  suggests,  and  the  whole  comes  into  touch  with  love. 
In  one  way  or  another  the  imagination  is  led  on  by  novelty.  It  is  possible 
in  this  way  to  be  interested  in  a very  ugly  man  without  thinking  of  his 
ugliness,*  and  in  good  time  his  ugliness  becomes  beauty.  At  Vienna,  in 
1788,  Madame  Vigano,  a dancer  and  the  woman  of  the  moment,  was 
with  child — very  soon  the  ladies  took  to  wearing  little  V entres  a la  Vigano. 
For  the  same  reason  reversed,  nothing  more  fearful  than  a fashion  out 
of  date  ! Bad  taste  is  a confusion  of  fashion,  which  lives  only  by  change, 
with  the  lasting  beauty  produced  by  such  and  such  a government,  guided 
by  such  and  such  a climate.  A building  in  fashion  to-day,  in  ten  years 
will  be  out  of  fashion.  It  will  be  less  displeasing  in  two  hundred  years, 
when  its  fashionable  day  will  be  forgotten.  Lovers  are  quite  mad  to 
think  about  their  dress ; a woman  has  other  things  to  do,  when 
seeing  the  object  of  her  love,  than  to  bother  about  his  get-up  ; we  look 
at  our  lover,  we  do  not  examine  him,  says  Rousseau.  If  this  examination 
takes  place,  we  are  dealing  with  gallant-love  and  not  passion-love.  The 
brilliance  of  beauty  is  almost  offensive  in  the  object  of  our  love ; it  is 
none  of  our  business  to  see  her  beautiful,  we  want  her  tender  and  languish- 
ing. Adornment  has  effect  in  love  only  upon  girls,  who  are  so  rigidly 
guarded  in  their  parents’  house,  that  they  often  lose  their  hearts  through 
their  eyes.  (L.’s  words.  September  15,  1820.) 

* Le  petit  Germain,  Memoires  de  Grammont. 

1 For  their  polish  or  their  size  or  their  form  ! In  this  way,  or  by  the 
combination  of  sentiments  (see  above,  the  small-pox  scars)  a woman  in 
love  grows  used  to  the  faults  of  her  lover.  The  Russian  Princess  C.  has 
actually  become  used  to  a man  who  literally  has  no  nose.  The  picture 
of  his  courage,  of  his  pistol  loaded  to  kill  himself  in  despair  at  his  mis- 
fortune, and  pity  for  the  bitter  calamity,  enhanced  by  the  idea  that  he 
will  recover  and  is  beginning  to  recover,  are  the  forces  which  have  worked 
this  miracle.  The  poor  fellow  with  his  wound  must  appear  not  to  think 
of  his  misfortune.  (Berlin,  1807.) 


LIMITATIONS  OF  BEAUTY 


6 1 


The  appearance  every  evening  of  a pretty  dancer 
forces  a little  interest  from  those  poor  souls,  blase  or 
bereft  of  imagination,  who  adorn  the  balcony  of  the 
opera.  By  her  graceful  movements,  daring  and  strange, 
she  awakens  their  physical  love  and  procures  them  perhaps 
the  only  crystallisation  of  which  they  are  still  capable. 
This  is  the  way  by  which  a young  scarecrow,  who  in  the 
street  would  not  have  been  honoured  with  a glance,  least 
of  all  from  people  the  worse  for  wear,  has  only  to  appear 
frequently  on  the  stage,  and  she  manages  to  get  herself 
handsomely  supported.  Geoffroy  used  to  say  that  the 
theatre  is  the  pedestal  of  woman.  The  more  notorious 
and  the  more  dilapidated  a dancer,  the  more  she  is 
worth ; hence  the  green-room  proverb : “ Some  get 
sold  at  a price  who  wouldn’t  be  taken  as  a gift.”  These 
women  steal  part  of  their  passions  from  their  lovers, 
and  are  very  susceptible  of  love  from  pique. 

How  manage  not  to  connect  generous  or  lovable  senti- 
ments with  the  face  of  an  actress,  in  whose  features  there 
is  nothing  repugnant,  whom  for  two  hours  every  evening 
we  see  expressing  the  most  noble  feelings,  and  whom 
otherwise  we  do  not  know  ? When  at  last  you  succeed 
in  being  received  by  her,  her  features  recall  such  pleasing 
feelings,  that  the  entire  reality  which  surrounds  her, 
however  little  nobility  it  may  sometimes  possess,  is 
instantly  invested  with  romantic  and  touching  colours. 

“ Devotee,  in  the  days  of  my  youth,  of  that  boring 
French  tragedy,1  whenever  I had  the  luck  of  supping 
with  Mile.  Olivier,  I found  myself  every  other  moment 
overbrimming  with  respect,  in  the  belief  that  I was 
speaking  to  a queen  ; and  really  I have  never  been  quite 
sure  whether,  in  her  case,  I had  fallen  in  love  with  a 
queen  or  a pretty  tart.” 

1 Improper  expression  copied  from  the  Memoirs  of  my  friend,  the 
late  Baron  de  Bottmer.  It  is  by  the  same  trick  that  Feramorz  pleases 
Lalla-Rookh.  See  that  charming  poem. 


CHAPTER  XX 


PERHAPS  men  who  are  not  susceptible  to  the  feelings 
of  passion-love  are  those  most  keenly  sensitive  to 
the  effects  of  beauty : that  at  least  is  the  strongest  im- 
pression which  such  men  can  receive  of  women. 

He  who  has  felt  his  heart  beating  at  a distant  glimpse 
of  the  white  satin  hat  of  the  woman  he  loves,  is  quite 
amazed  by  the  chill  left  upon  him  by  the  approach  of 
the  greatest  beauty  in  the  world.  He  may  even  have  a 
qualm  of  distress,  to  observe  the  excitement  of  others. 

Extremely  lovely  women  cause  less  surprise  the  second 
day.  ’Tis  a great  misfortune,  it  discourages  crystallisa- 
tion. Their  merit  being  obvious  to  all  and  public 
property,  they  are  bound  to  reckon  more  fools  in  the 
list  of  their  lovers  than  princes,  millionaires,  etc.1 

1 It  is  quite  clear  that  the  author  is  neither  prince  nor  millionaire. 
I wanted  to  steal  that  sally  from  the  reader. 


6a 


CHAPTER  XXI 


LOVE  AT  FIRST  SIGHT 

IMAGINATIVE  souls  are  sensitive  and  also  mis- 
trustful, even  the  most  ingenuous,1 — I maintain. 
They  may  be  suspicious  without  knowing  it : they  have 
had  so  many  disappointments  in  life.  Thus  everything 
set-out  and  official,  when  a man  is  first  introduced,  scares 
the  imagination  and  drives  away  the  possibility  of  crystal- 
lisation ; the  romantic  is  then,  on  the  contrary,  love’s 
triumph. 

Nothing  simpler — for  in  the  supreme  astonishment, 
which  keeps  the  thoughts  busy  for  long  upon  something 
out  of  the  ordinary,  is  already  half  the  mental  exercise 
necessary  to  crystallisation. 

I will  quote  the  beginning  of  the  Amours  of  Seraphine 
(Gil  Bias , Bk.  IV,  Chap.  X).  It  is  Don  Fernando  who 
tells  the  story  of  his  flight,  when  pursued  by  the  agents 
of  the  inquisition.  . . . 

After  crossing  several  walks  I came  to  a drawing-room,  the 
door  of  which  was  also  left  open.  I entered,  and  when  I had 
observed  all  its  magnificence  . . . One  side  of  the  room  a door 
stood  ajar  ; I partly  opened  it  and  saw  a suite  of  apartments 

1 The  Bride  of  Lamviermoor,  Miss  Ashton. 

A man  who  has  lived  finds  in  his  memory  numberless  examples  of 
“ affairs,”  and  his  only  trouble  is  to  make  his  choice.  But  if  he  wishes  to 
write,  he  no  longer  knows  where  to  look  for  support.  The  anecdotes  of 
the  particular  circles  he  has  lived  in  are  unknown  to  the  public,  and  it 
would  require  an  immense  number  of  pages  to  recount  them  with  the 
necessary  circumstantiality.  I quote  for  that  reason  from  generally- 
known  novels,  but  the  ideas  which  I submit  to  the  reader  I do  not  ground 
upon  such  empty  fictions,  calculated  for  the  most  part  with  an  eye  to 
the  picturesque  rather  than  the  true  effect. 

63 


ON  LOVE 


64 

whereof  only  the  furthest  was  lighted.  “ What  is  to  be  done 
now  ? ” I asked  myself.  ...  I could  not  resist  my  curiosity.  . . . 
Advancing  boldly,  I went  through  all  the  rooms  and  reached  one 
where  there  was  a light — to  wit,  a taper  upon  a marble  table  in  a 
silver-gilt  candlestick.  . . . But  soon  afterwards,  casting  my  eyes 
upon  a bed,  the  curtains  of  which  were  partly  drawn  on  account 
of  the  heat,  I perceived  an  object  which  at  once  engrossed  my 
attention  : a young  lady,  fast  asleep  in  spite  of  the  noise  of  the 
thunder,  which  had  just  been  bursting  forth.  I softly  drew  near 
her.  My  mind  was  suddenly  troubled  at  the  sight.  Whilst  I 
feasted  my  eyes  with  the  pleasure  of  beholding  her,  she  awoke. 

Imagine  her  surprise  at  seeing  in  her  room  at  midnight  a man 
who  was  an  utter  stranger  to  her  ! She  trembled  on  beholding 
me  and  shrieked  aloud.  ...  I took  pains  to  reassure  her  and 
throwing  myself  on  my  knees  before  her,  said — “ Madam,  have 
no  fear.”  She  called  her  women  . . . Grown  a little  braver  by 
his  (an  old  servant’s)  presence,  she  haughtily  asked  me  who 
was,  etc.  etc.”1 

There  is  an  introduction  not  easily  to  be  forgotten  ! 
On  the  other  hand,  could  there  be  anything  sillier  in  our 
customs  of  to-day  than  the  official,  and  at  the  same  time 
almost  sentimental,  introduction  of  the  young  wooer  to 
his  future  wife : such  legal  prostitution  goes  so  far  as  to 
be  almost  offensive  to  modesty. 

“ I have  just  been  present  this  afternoon,  February 
17th,  1790,”  says  Chamfort,  “at  a so-called  family 
function.  That  is  to  say,  men  of  respectable  reputation 
and  a decent  company  were  congratulating  on  her 
good  fortune  Mile,  de  Marille,  a young  person  of 
beauty,  wit  and  virtue,  who  is  to  be  favoured  with  becom- 
ing the  wife  of  M.  R. — an  unhealthy  dotard,  repulsive, 
dishonest,  and  mad,  but  rich : she  has  seen  him  for  the 
third  time  to-day,  when  signing  the  contract.  If  any- 
thing characterises  an  age  of  infamy,  it  is  the  jubilation  on 
an  occasion  like  this,  it  is  the  folly  of  such  joy  and — looking 
ahead — the  sanctimonious  cruelty,  with  which  the 
same  society  will  heap  contempt  without  reserve  upon 
1 [Translation  of  Henri  van  Laun. — Tr.] 


LOVE  AT  FIRST  SIGHT  65 

the  pettiest  imprudence  of  a poor  young  woman  in 
love.” 

Ceremony  of  all  kinds,  being  in  its  essence  something 
affected  and  set-out  beforehand,  in  which  the  point  is  to 
act  “ properly,”  paralyses  the  imagination  and  leaves  it 
awake  only  to  that  which  is  opposed  to  the  object  of  the 
ceremony,  e.g.  something  comical — whence  the  magic 
effect  of  the  slightest  joke.  A poor  girl,  struggling  against 
nervousness  and  attacks  of  modesty  during  the  official 
introduction  of  her  fiance , can  think  of  nothing  but 
the  part  she  is  playing,  and  this  again  is  a certain  means 
of  stifling  the  imagination. 

Modesty  has  far  more  to  say  against  getting  into  bed 
with  a man  whom  you  have  seen  but  twice,  after 
three  Latin  words  have  been  spoken  in  church,  than 
against  giving  way  despite  yourself  to  the  man  whom  for 
two  years  you  have  adored.  But  I am  talking  double 
Dutch. 

The  fruitful  source  of  the  vices  and  mishaps,  which 
follow  our  marriages  nowadays,  is  the  Church  of  Rome. 
It  makes  liberty  for  girls  impossible  before  marriage,  and 
divorce  impossible,  when  once  they  have  made  their  mis- 
take, or  rather  when  they  find  out  the  mistake  of  the  choice 
forced  on  them.  Compare  Germany,  the  land  of  happy 
marriages:  a delightful  princess  (Madame  la  Duchesse 

de  Sa ) has  just  married  in  all  good  faith  for  the 

fourth  time,  and  has  not  failed  to  ask  to  the  wedding 
her  three  first  husbands,  with  whom  she  is  on  the  best 
terms.  That  is  going  too  far ; but  a single  divorce,  which 
punishes  a husband  for  his  tyranny,  prevents  a thousand 
cases  of  unhappy  wedded  life.  What  is  amusing  is  that 
Rome  is  one  of  the  places  where  you  see  most  divorces. 

Love  goes  out  at  first  sight  towards  a face,  which  reveals 
in  a man  at  once  something  to  respect  and  something  to 
pity. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


OF  INFATUATION 


HE  most  fastidious  spirits  are  very  given  to  curiosity 


and  prepossession : this  is  to  be  seen,  especially,  in 
beings  in  which  that  sacred  fire,  the  source  of  the  passions, 
is  extinct — in  fact  it  is  one  of  the  most  fatal  symptoms. 
There  is  also  the  infatuation  of  schoolboys  just  admitted 
to  society.  At  the  two  poles  of  life,  with  too  much  or 
too  little  sensibility,  there  is  little  chance  of  simple 
people  getting  the  right  effect  from  things,  or  feeling  the 
genuine  sensation  which  they  ought  to  give.  These 
beings,  either  too  ardent  or  excessive  in  their  ardour, 
amorous  on  credit,  if  one  may  use  the  expression,  throw 
themselves  at  objects  instead  of  awaiting  them. 

From  afar  off  and  without  looking  they  enfold  things 
in  that  imaginary  charm,  of  which  they  find  a perennial 
source  within  themselves,  long  before  sensation,  which 
is  the  consequence  of  the  object’s  nature,  has  had  time 
to  reach  them.  Then,  on  coming  to  close  quarters,  they 
see  these  things  not  such  as  they  are,  but  as  they  have 
made  them  ; they  think  they  are  enjoying  such  and 
such  an  object,  while,  under  cover  of  that  object,  they  are 
enjoying  themselves.  But  one  fine  day  a man  gets  tired 
of  keeping  the  whole  thing  going ; he  discovers  that  his 
idol  is  not  playing  the  game  ; infatuation  collapses  and 
the  resulting  shock  to  his  self-esteem  makes  him  unfair 
to  that  which  he  appreciated  too  highly. 


66 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


THE  THUNDERBOLT  FROM  THE  BLUE  (ri) 

SO  ridiculous  an  expression  ought  to  be  changed,  yet 
the  thing  exists.  I have  seen  the  amiable  and  noble 
Wilhelmina,  the  despair  of  the  beaux  of  Berlin,  making 
light  of  love  and  laughing  at  its  folly.  In  the  brilliance  of 
youth,  wit,  beauty  and  all  kinds  of  good  luck— a boundless 
fortune,  giving  her  the  opportunity  of  developing  all  her 
qualities,  seemed  to  conspire  with  nature  to  give  the  world 
an  example,  rarely  seen,  of  perfect  happiness  bestowed 
upon  an  object  perfectly  worthy.  She  was  twenty-three 
years  old  and,  already  some  time  at  Court,  had  won  the 
homage  of  the  bluest  blood.  Her  virtue,  unpretentious 
but  invulnerable,  was  quoted  as  a pattern.  Henceforth 
the  most  charming  men,  despairing  of  their  powers  of 
fascination,  aspired  only  to  make  her  their  friend.  One 
evening  she  goes  to  a ball  at  Prince  Ferdinand’s:  she 
dances  for  ten  minutes  with  a young  Captain. 

“ From  that  moment,”  she  writes  subsequently  to  a 
friend,1  “ he  was  master  of  my  heart  and  of  me,  and  this 
to  a degree  that  would  have  filled  me  with  terror,  if  the 
happiness  of  seeing  Herman  had  left  me  time  to  think  of 
the  rest  of  existence.  My  only  thought  was  to  observe 
whether  he  gave  me  a little  notice. 

“ To-day  the  only  consolation  that  I might  find  for 
my  fault  is  to  nurse  the  illusion  within  me,  that  it  is 
through  a superior  power  that  I am  lost  to  reason  and  to 
myself.  I have  no  word  to  describe,  in  a way  that  comes 
at  all  near  the  reality,  the  degree  of  disorder  and  turmoil 

1 Translated  ad  litter  am  from  the  Memoirs  of  Bottmer. 

67 


68 


ON  LOVE 


to  which  the  mere  sight  of  him  could  bring  my  whole 
being.  I blush  to  think  of  the  rapidity  and  the  violence 
with  which  I was  drawn  towards  him.  If  his  first  word, 
when  at  last  he  spoke  to  me,  had  been  ‘ Do  you  adore 
me  ? ’ — truly  I should  not  have  had  the  power  to  have 
answered  anything  but  ‘ yes.’  I was  far  from  thinking 
that  the  effect  of  a feeling  could  be  at  once  so  sudden 
and  so  unforeseen.  In  fact,  for  an  instant,  I believed 
that  I had  been  poisoned. 

“ Unhappily  you  and  the  world,  my  dear  friend,  know 
how  well  I have  loved  Herman.  Well,  after  quarter  of  an 
hour  he  was  so  dear  to  me  that  he  cannot  have  become 
dearer  since.  I saw  then  all  his  faults  and  I forgave  them 
all,  provided  only  he  would  love  me. 

“ Soon  after  I had  danced  with  him,  the  king  left : 
Herman,  who  belonged  to  the  suite,  had  to  follow  him. 
With  him,  everything  in  nature  disappeared.  It  is  no 
good  to  try  to  depict  the  excess  of  weariness  with  which 
I felt  weighed  down,  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  my  sight. 
It  was  equal  only  to  the  keenness  of  my  desire  to  be 
alone  with  myself. 

“ At  last  I got  away.  No  sooner  the  door  of  my  room 
shut  and  bolted  than  I wanted  to  resist  my  passion.  I 
thought  I should  succeed.  Ah,  dear  friend,  believe  me 
I paid  dear  that  evening  and  the  following  days  for  the 
pleasure  of  being  able  to  credit  myself  with  some  virtue.” 

The  preceding  lines  are  the  exact  story  of  an  event 
which  was  the  topic  of  the  day ; for  after  a month  or 
two  poor  Wilhelmina  was  unfortunate  enough  for  people 
to  take  notice  of  her  feelings.  Such  was  the  origin  of 
that  long  series  of  troubles  by  which  she  perished  so 
young  and  so  tragically — poisoned  by  herself  or  her 
lover.  All  that  we  could  see  in  this  young  Captain  wras 
that  he  was  an  excellent  dancer  ; he  had  plenty  of  gaiety 
and  still  more  assurance,  a general  air  of  good  nature  and 
spent  his  time  with  prostitutes  ; for  the  rest,  scarcely  a 
nobleman,  quite  poor  and  not  seen  at  Court. 


THUNDERBOLT  FROM  THE  BLUE  69 

In  these  cases  it  is  not  enough  to  have  no  misgivings — 
one  must  be  sick  of  misgivings — have,  so  to  speak,  the 
impatience  of  courage  to  face  life’s  chances. 

The  soul  of  a woman,  grown  tired,  without  noticing 
it,  of  living  without  loving,  convinced  in  spite  of  herself 
by  the  example  of  other  women — all  the  fears  of  life 
surmounted  and  the  sorry  happiness  of  pride  found 
wanting — ends  in  creating  unconsciously  a model,  an 
ideal.  One  day  she  meets  this  model:  crystallisation 
recognises  its  object  by  the  commotion  it  inspires  and 
consecrates  for  ever  to  the  master  of  its  fortunes  the  fruit 
of  all  its  previous  dreams.1 

Women,  whose  hearts  are  open  to  this  misfortune,  have 
too  much  grandeur  of  soul  to  love  otherwise  than  with 
passion.  They  would  be  saved  if  they  could  stoop  to 
gallantry. 

As  “ thunderbolts  ” come  from  a secret  lassitude  in 
what  the  catechism  calls  Virtue,  and  from  boredom 
brought  on  by  the  uniformity  of  perfection,  I should  be 
inclined  to  think  that  it  would  generally  be  the  privilege 
of  what  is  known  in  the  world  as  “ a bad  lot  ” to  bring 
them  down.  I doubt  very  much  whether  rigidity  a la 
Cato  has  ever  been  the  occasion  of  a “ thunderbolt.” 

What  makes  them  so  rare  is  that  if  the  heart,  thus  dis- 
posed to  love  beforehand,  has  the  slightest  inkling  of  its 
situation,  there  is  no  thunderbolt. 

The  soul  of  a woman,  whom  troubles  have  made  mis- 
trustful, is  not  susceptible  of  this  revolution. 

Nothing  facilitates  “ a thunderbolt  ” like  praise,  given 
in  advance  and  by  women,  to  the  person  who  is  to  occa- 
sion it. 

False  “ thunderbolts  ” form  one  of  the  most  comic 
sources  of  love  stories.  A weary  woman,  but  one  without 
much  feeling,  thinks  for  a whole  evening  that  she  is  in 
love  for  life.  She  is  proud  of  having  found  at  last  one 
of  those  great  commotions  of  the  soul,  which  used  to 
1 Several  phrases  taken  from  Crebillon. 


7o 


ON  LOVE 


allure  her  imagination.  The  next  day  she  no  longer  knows 
where  to  hide  her  face  and,  still  more,  how  to  avoid  the 
wretched  object  she  was  adoring  the  night  before. 

Clever  people  know  how  to  spot,  that  is  to  say,  make 
capital  out  of  these  “ thunderbolts.” 

Physical  love  also  has  its  “ thunderbolts.”  Yesterday 
in  her  carriage  with  the  prettiest  and  most  easy-going 
woman  in  Berlin,  we  saw  her  suddenly  blush.  She 
became  deeply  absorbed  and  preoccupied.  Handsome 
Lieutenant  Findorff  had  just  passed.  In  the  evening  at 
the  play,  according  to  her  own  confession  to  me,  she  was 
out  of  her  mind,  she  was  beside  herself,  she  could  think 
of  nothing  but  Findorff,  to  whom  she  had  never  spoken. 
If  she  had  dared,  she  told  me,  she  would  have  sent  for 
him — that  pretty  face  bore  all  the  signs  of  the  most 
violent  passion.  The  next  day  it  was  still  going  on. 
After  three  days,  Findorff  having  played  the  blockhead, 
she  thought  no  more  about  it.  A month  later  she  loathed 
him. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


VOYAGE  IN  AN  UNKNOWN  LAND 

I ADVISE  the  majority  of  people  born  in  the  North 
to  skip  the  present  chapter.  It  is  an  obscure  disserta- 
tion upon  certain  phenomena  relative  to  the  orange- 
tree,  a plant  which  does  not  grow  or  reach  its  full  height 
except  in  Italy  and  Spain.  In  order  to  be  intelligible 
elsewhere,  I should  have  had  to  cut  down  the  facts. 

I should  have  had  no  hesitation  about  this,  if  for  a 
single  moment  I had  intended  to  write  a book  to  be 
generally  appreciated.  But  Heaven  having  refused  me 
the  writer’s  gift,  I have  thought  solely  of  describing  with 
all  the  ill-grace  of  science,  but  also  with  all  its  exactitude, 
certain  facts,  of  which  I became  involuntarily  the  witness 
through  a prolonged  sojourn  in  the  land  of  the  orange- 
tree.  Frederick  the  Great,  or  some  such  other  distin- 
guished man  from  the  North,  who  never  had  the 
opportunity  of  seeing  the  orange-tree  growing  in  the 
open,  would  doubtless  have  denied  the  facts  which 
follow — and  denied  in  good  faith.  I have  an  infinite 
respect  for  .such  good  faith  and  can  see  its  wherefore. 

As  this  sincere  declaration  may  seem  presumption,  I 
append  the  following  reflexion : — 

We  write  haphazard,  each  one  of  us  what  we  think 
true,  and  each  gives  the  lie  to  his  neighbour.  I see  in 
our  books  so  many  tickets  in  a lottery  and  in  reality 
they  have  no  more  value.  Posterity,  forgetting  some  and 
reprinting  others,  declares  the  lucky  numbers.  And  in 
so  far,  each  one  of  us  having  written  as  best  he  can,  what 
he  thinks  true,  has  no  right  to  laugh  at  his  neighbour — 

71 


72 


ON  LOVE 


except  where  the  satire  is  amusing.  In  that  case  he  is 
always  right,  especially  if  he  writes  like  M.  Courrier  to 
Del  Furia  (12). 

After  this  preamble,  I am  going  bravely  to  enter  into 
the  examination  of  facts  which,  I am  convinced,  have 
rarely  been  observed  at  Paris.  But  after  all  at  Paris, 
superior  as  of  course  it  is  to  all  other  towns,  orange-trees 
are  not  seen  growing  out  in  the  open,  as  at  Sorrento, 
and  it  is  there  that  Lisio  Visconti  observed  and  noted 
the  following  facts — at  Sorrento,  the  country  of  Tasso, 
on  the  Bay  of  Naples  in  a position  half-way  down  to  the 
sea,  still  more  picturesque  than  that  of  Naples  itself,  but 
where  no  one  reads  the  Mtroir. 

When  we  are  to  see  in  the  evening  the  woman  we  love, 
the  suspense,  the  expectation  of  so  great  a happiness  makes 
every  moment,  which  separates  us  from  it,  unbearable. 

A devouring  fever  makes  us  take  up  and  lay  aside  twenty 
different  occupations.  We  look  every  moment  at  our 
watch — overjoyed  when  we  see  that  we  have  managed  to 
pass  ten  minutes  without  looking  at  the  time.  The  hour 
so  longed-for  strikes  at  last,  and  when  we  are  at  her  door 
ready  to  knock — we  would  be  glad  not  to  find  her  in.  It 
is  only  on  reflexion  that  we  would  be  sorry  for  it.  In  a 
word,  the  suspense  before  seeing  her  produces  an  un- 
pleasant effect. 

There  you  have  one  of  the  things  which  make  good 
folk  say  that  love  drives  men  silly. 

The  reason  is  that  the  imagination,  violently  with- 
drawn from  dreams  of  delight  in  which  every  step 
forward  brings  happiness,  is  brought  back  face  to  face 
with  severe  reality. 

The  gentle  soul  knows  well  that  in  the  combat  wdiich 
is  to  begin  the  moment  he  sees  her,  the  least  inadvertency, 
the  least  lack  of  attention  or  of  courage  will  be  paid  for 
by  a defeat,  poisoning,  for  a long  time  to  come,  the 
dreams  of  fancy  and  of  passion,  and  humiliating  to  a 
man’s  pride,  if  he  try  to  find  consolation  outside  the 


VOYAGE  IN  AN  UNKNOWN  LAND  73 

sphere  of  passion.  He  says  to  himself : “ I hadn’t  the 
wit,  I hadn’t  the  pluck  ” ; but  the  only  way  to  have 
pluck  before  the  loved  one  is  by  loving  her  a little  less. 

It  is  a fragment  of  attention,  torn  by  force  with  so  much 
trouble  from  the  dreams  of  crystallisation,  which  allows 
the  crowd  of  things  to  escape  us  during  our  first  words 
with  the  woman  we  love — things  which  have  no  sense  or 
which  have  a sense  contrary  to  what  we  mean — or  else, 
what  is  still  more  heartrending,  we  exaggerate  our  feelings 
and  they  become  ridiculous  in  our  own  eyes.  We  feel 
vaguely  that  we  are  not  paying  enough  attention  to  our 
words  and  mechanically  set  about  polishing  and  loading 
our  oratory.  And,  also,  it  is  impossible  to  hold  one’s 
tongue — silence  would  be  embarrassing  and  make  it 
still  less  possible  to  give  one’s  thoughts  to  her.  So  we 
say  in  a feeling  way  a host  of  things  that  we  do  not  feel, 
and  would  be  quite  embarrassed  to  repeat,  obstinately 
keeping  our  distance  from  the  woman  before  us,  in  order 
more  really  to  be  with  her.  In  the  early  hours  of  my 
acquaintance  with  love,  this  oddity  which  I felt  within 
me,  made  me  believe  that  I did  not  love. 

I understand  cowardice  and  how  recruits,  to  be  de- 
livered of  their  fear,  throw  themselves  recklessly  into  the 
midst  of  the  fire.  The  number  of  silly  things  I have  said 
in  the  last  two  years,  in  order  not  to  hold  my  tongue, 
makes  me  mad  when  I think  of  them. 

And  that  is  what  should  easily  mark  in  a woman’s  eyes 
the  difference  between  passion-love  and  gallantry,  be- 
tween the  gentle  soul  and  the  prosaic.1 

In  these  decisive  moments  the  one  gains  as  much  as  the 
other  loses:  the  prosaic  soul  gets  just  the  degree  of  warmth 
which  he  ordinarily  wants,  while  excess  of  feeling  drives 
mad  the  poor  gentle  heart,  who,  to  crown  his  troubles, 
really  means  to  hide  his  madness.  Completely  taken  up 
with  keeping  his  own  transports  in  check,  he  is  miles  away 
from  the  self-possession  necessary  in  order  to  seize  oppor- 
1 The  word  was  one  of  Leonore’s. 


ON  LOVE 


74 

tunities,  and  leaves  in  a muddle  after  a visit,  in  which 
the  prosaic  soul  would  have  made  a great  step  forward. 
Directly  it  is  a question  of  advancing  his  too  violent 
passion,  a gentle  being  with  pride  cannot  be  eloquent 
under  the  eye  of  the  woman  whom  he  loves : the  pain 
of  ill-success  is  too  much  for  him.  The  vulgar  being,  on 
the  contrary,  calculates  nicely  the  chances  of  success:  he 
is  stopped  by  no  foretastes  of  the  suffering  of  defeat,  and, 
proud  of  that  which  makes  him  vulgar,  laughs  at  the  gentle 
soul,  who,  with  all  the  cleverness  he  may  have,  is  never 
quite  enough  at  ease  to  say  the  simplest  things  and  those 
most  certain  to  succeed.  The  gentle  soul,  far  from  being 
able  to  grasp  anything  by  force,  must  resign  himself  to  ob- 
taining nothing  except  through  the  charity  of  her  whom 
he  loves.  If  the  woman  one  loves  really  has  feelings,  one 
always  has  reason  to  regret  having  wished  to  put  pressure 
on  oneself  in  order  to  make  love  to  her.  One  looks  shame- 
faced, looks  chilly,  would  look  deceitful,  did  not  passion 
betray  itself  by  other  and  surer  signs.  To  express  what  we 
feel  so  keenly,  and  in  such  detail,  at  every  moment  of  the 
day,  is  a task  we  take  upon  our  shoulders  because  we  have 
read  novels ; for  if  we  were  natural,  we  would  never 
undertake  anything  so  irksome.  Instead  of  wanting  to 
speak  of  what  we  felt  a quarter  of  an  hour  ago,  and  of 
trying  to  make  of  it  a general  and  interesting  topic,  we 
would  express  simply  the  passing  fragment  of  our  feelings 
at  the  moment.  But  no  ! we  put  the  most  violent  pres- 
sure upon  ourselves  for  a worthless  success,  and,  as  there 
is  no  evidence  of  actual  sensation  to  back  our  words,  and 
as  our  memory  cannot  be  working  freely,  we  approve  at 
the  time  of  things  to  say — and  say  them — comical  to  a 
degree  that  is  more  than  humiliating. 

When  at  last,  after  an  hour’s  trouble,  this  extremely 
painful  effort  has  resulted  in  getting  away  from  the 
enchanted  gardens  of  the  imagination,  in  order  to  enjoy 
quite  simply  the  presence  of  what  you  love,  it  often 
happens — that  you’ve  got  to  take  your  leave. 


VOYAGE  IN  AN  UNKNOWN  LAND  75 

All  this  looks  like  extravagance,  but  I have  seen  better 
still.  A woman,  whom  one  of  my  friends  loved  to 
idolatry,  pretending  to  take  offence  at  some  or  other 
want  of  delicacy,  which  I was  never  allowed  to  learn, 
condemned  him  all  of  a sudden  to  see  her  only  twice 
a month.  These  visits,  so  rare  and  so  intensely  desired, 
meant  an  attack  of  madness,  and  it  wanted  all  Salviati’s 
strength  of  character  to  keep  it  from  being  seen  by 
outward  signs. 

From  the  very  first,  the  idea  of  the  visit’s  end  is  too 
insistent  for  one  to  be  able  to  take  pleasure  in  the  visit. 
One  speaks  a great  deal,  deaf  to  one’s  own  thoughts, 
saying  often  the  contrary  of  what  one  thinks.  One 
embarks  upon  discourses  which  have  got  suddenly  to  be 
cut  short,  because  of  their  absurdity — if  one  manage  to 
rouse  oneself  and  listen  to  one’s  thoughts  within.  The 
effort  we  make  is  so  violent  that  we  seem  chilly.  Love 
hides  itself  in  its  excess. 

Away  from  her,  the  imagination  was  lulled  by  the  most 
charming  dialogues : there  were  transports  the  most 

tender  and  the  most  touching.  And  thus  for  ten  days  or 
so  you  think  you  have  the  courage  to  speak ; but  two 
days  before  what  should  have  been  our  day  of  happiness, 
the  fever  begins,  and,  as  the  terrible  instant  draws  near, 
its  force  redoubles. 

Just  as  you  come  into  her  salon , in  order  not  to  do  or 
say  some  incredible  piece  of  nonsense,  you  clutch  in 
despair  at  the  resolution  of  keeping  your  mouth  shut  and 
your  eyes  on  her — in  order  at  least  to  be  able  to  remem- 
ber her  face.  Scarcely  before  her,  something  like  a kind 
of  drunkenness  comes  over  your  eyes ; you  feel  driven 
like  a maniac  to  do  strange  actions ; it  is  as  if  you  had 
two  souls — one  to  act  and  the  other  to  blame  your  actions. 
You  feel,  in  a confused  way,  that  to  turn  your  strained 
attention  to  folly  would  temporarily  refresh  the  blood, 
and  make  you  lose  from  sight  the  end  of  the  visit  and  the 
misery  of  parting  for  a fortnight. 


76 


ON  LOVE 


If  some  bore  be  there,  who  tells  a pointless  story,  the 
poor  lover,  in  his  inexplicable  madness,  as  if  he  were 
nervous  of  losing  moments  so  rare,  becomes  all  attention. 
That  hour,  of  which  he  drew  himself  so  sweet  a picture, 
passes  like  a flash  of  lightning  and  yet  he  feels,  with 
unspeakable  bitterness,  all  the  little  circumstances  which 
show  how  much  a stranger  he  has  become  to  her  whom  he 
loves.  There  he  is  in  the  midst  of  indifferent  visitors 
and  sees  himself  the  only  one  who  does  not  know  her  life 
of  these  past  days,  in  all  its  details.  At  last  he  goes : and 
as  he  coldly  says  good-bye,  he’has  the  agonising  feeling  of 
two  whole  weeks  before  another  meeting.  Without  a 
doubt  he  would  suffer  less  never  to  see  the  object  of  his 
love  again.  It  is  in  the  style,  only  far  blacker,  of  the  Due 
de  Policastro,  who  every  six  months  travelled  a hundred 
leagues  to  see  for  a quarter  of  an  hour  at  Lecce  a beloved 
mistress  guarded  by  a jealous  husband. 

Here  you  can  see  clearly  Will  without  influence  upon 
Love. 

Out  of  all  patience  with  one’s  mistress  and  oneself,  how 
furious  the  desire  to  bury  oneself  in  indifference  ! The 
only  good  of  such  visits  is  to  replenish  the  treasure  of 
crystallisation. 

Life  for  Salviati  was  divided  into  periods  of  two  weeks, 
which  took  their  colour  from  the  last  evening  he  had 

been  allowed  to  see  Madame . For  example,  he  was 

in  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight  the  21st  of  May,  and 
the  2nd  of  June  he  kept  away  from  home,  for  fear  of 
yielding  to  the  temptation  of  blowing  out  his  brains. 

I saw  that  evening  how  badly  novelists  have  drawn 
the  moment  of  suicide.  Salviati  simply  said  to  me  : 
“ I’m  thirsty,  I must  take  this  glass  of  water.”  I did  not 
oppose  his  resolution,  but  said  good-bye  : then  he  broke 
down. 

Seeing  the  obscurity  which  envelops  the  discourse  of 
lovers,  it  would  not  be  prudent  to  push  too  far  con- 
clusions drawn  from  an  isolated  detail  of  their  conversa- 


VOYAGE  IN  AN  UNKNOWN  LAND  77 

tion.  They  give  a fair  glimpse  of  their  feelings  only  in 
sudden  expressions — then  it  is  the  cry  of  the  heart.  Other- 
wise it  is  from  the  complexion  of  the  bulk  of  what  is  said 
that  inductions  are  to  be  drawn.  And  we  must  remember 
that  quite  often  a man,  who  is  very  moved,  has  no  time 
to  notice  the  emotion  of  the  person  who  is  the  cause  of 
his  own. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


THE  INTRODUCTION 


O see  the  subtlety  and  sureness  of  judgment  with 


which  women  grasp  certain  details,  I am  lost  in 
admiration : but  a moment  later,  I see  them  praise  a 
blockhead  to  the  skies,  let  themselves  be  moved  to  tears 
by  a piece  of  insipidity,  or  weigh  gravely  a fatuous 
affectation,  as  if  it  were  a telling  characteristic.  I cannot 
conceive  such  simplicity.  There  must  be  some  general 
law  in  all  this,  unknown  to  me. 

Attentive  to  one  merit  in  a man  and  absorbed  by  one 
detail,  women  feel  it  deeply  and  have  no  eyes  for  the 
rest.  All  the  nervous  fluid  is  used  up  in  the  enjoyment 
of  this  quality:  there  is  none  left  to  see  the  others. 

I have  seen  the  most  remarkable  men  introduced  to 
very  clever  women  ; it  was  always  a particle  of  bias 
which  decided  the  effect  of  the  first  inspection. 

If  I may  be  allowed  a familiar  detail,  I shall  tell  the 

story  how  charming  Colonel  L.  B was  to  be  introduced 

to  Madame  de  Struve  of  Koenigsberg — she  a most  dis- 
tinguished woman.  “ Far  a colpo  ? ” 1 — we  asked  each 

other  ; and  a wager  was  made  as  a result.  I go  up  to 
Madame  de  Struve,  and  tell  her  the  Colonel  wears  his 
ties  two  days  running — the  second  he  turns  them — she 
could  notice  on  his  tie  the  creases  downwards.  Nothing 
more  palpably  untrue  ! 

As  I finish,  the  dear  fellow  is  announced.  The  silliest 
little  Parisian  would  have  made  more  effect.  Observe 
that  Madame  de  Struve  was  one  who  could  love.  She  is 


[*  Will  he  impress  her  ? — Tr.] 
78 


THE  INTRODUCTION 


79 

also  a respectable  woman  and  there  could  have  been  no 
question  of  gallantry  between  them. 

Never  were  two  characters  more  made  for  each  other. 
People  blamed  Madame  de  Struve  for  being  romantic, 
and  there  was  nothing  could  touch  L.  B.  but  virtue  carried 
to  the  point  of  the  romantic.  Thanks  to  her,  he  had  a 
bullet  put  through  him  quite  young. 

It  has  been  given  to  women  admirably  to  feel  the  fine 
shades  of  affection,  the  most  imperceptible  variations  of 
the  human  heart,  the  lightest  movements  of  suscepti- 
bility. 

In  this  regard  they  have  an  organ  which  in  us  is  miss- 
ing : watch  them  nurse  the  wounded. 

But,  perhaps,  they  are  equally  unable  to  see  what 
mind  consists  in — as  a moral  composition.  I have  seen 
the  most  distinguished  women  charmed  with  a clever 
man,  who  was  not  myself,  and,  at  the  same  time  and 
almost  with  the  same  word,  admire  the  biggest  fools. 
I felt  caught  like  a connoisseur,  who  sees  the  loveliest 
diamonds  taken  for  paste,  and  paste  preferred  for  being 
more  massive. 

And  so  I concluded  that  with  women  you  have  to 
risk  everything.  Where  General  Lassale  came  to  grief,  a 
captain  with  moustaches  and  heavy  oaths  succeeded.1 
There  is  surely  a whole  side  in  men’s  merit  which  escapes 
them.  For  myself,  I always  come  back  to  physical  laws. 
The  nervous  fluid  spends  itself  in  men  through  the  brain 
and  in  women  through  the  heart : that  is  w'hy  they  are 
more  sensitive.  Some  great  and  obligatory  work,  within 
the  profession  we  have  followed  all  our  life,  is  our 
consolation,  but  for  them  nothing  can  console  but 
distraction. 

Appiani,  who  only  believes  in  virtue  as  a last  resort, 
and  with  whom  this  evening  I went  routing  out  ideas 
(exposing  meanwhile  those  of  this  chapter)  answered : — 

“ The  force  of  soul,  which  Eponina  used  with  heroic 
1 Fosen,  1S07. 


8o 


ON  LOVE 


devotion,  to  keep  alive  her  husband  in  a cavern  under- 
ground and  to  keep  him  from  sinking  into  despair,  would 
have  helped  her  to  hide  from  him  a lover,  if  they  had 
lived  at  Rome  in  peace.  Strong  souls  must  have  their 
nourishment.” 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


OF  MODESTY 

IN  Madagascar,  a woman  exposes  without  a thought 
what  is  here  most  carefully  hidden,  but  would  die 
of  shame  sooner  than  show  her  arm.  Clearly  three- 
quarters  of  modesty  come  from  example.  It  is  perhaps 
the  one  law,  daughter  of  civilisation,  which  produces 
only  happiness. 

People  have  noticed  that  birds  of  prey  hide  themselves 
to  drink  ; the  reason  being  that,  obliged  to  plunge  their 
head  in  the  water,  they  are  at  that  moment  defenceless. 
After  a consideration  of  what  happens  at  Tahiti,1  I see 
no  other  natural  basis  for  modesty. 

Love  is  the  miracle  of  civilisation.  There  is  nothing 
but  a physical  love  of  the  coarsest  kind  among  savage  or 
too  barbarian  peoples. 

And  modesty  gives  love  the  help  of  imagination — 
that  is,  gives  it  life. 

Modesty  is  taught  little  girls  very  early  by  their 
mothers  with  such  jealous  care,  that  it  almost  looks  like 
fellow-feeling  ; in  this  way  women  take  measures  in  good 
time  for  the  happiness  of  the  lover  to  come. 

There  can  be  nothing  worse  for  a timid,  sensitive 
woman  than  the  torture  of  having,  in  the  presence  of  a 
man,  allowed  herself  something  for  which  she  thinks  she 
ought  to  blush  ; I am  convinced  that  a woman  with  a 

1 See  the  Travels  of  Bougainville,  Cook,  etc.  In  some  animals,  the 
female  seems  to  retract  at  the  moment  she  gives  herself.  We  must  expect 
from  comparative  anatomy  some  of  the  most  important  revelations  about 
ourselves. 


G 


81 


82 


ON  LOVE 


little  pride  would  sooner  face  a thousand  deaths.  A 
slight  liberty,  which  touches  a soft  corner  in  the  lover’s 
heart,  gives  her  a moment  of  lively  pleasure.1  If 
he  seem  to  blame  it,  or  simply  not  to  enjoy  it  to  the 
utmost,  it  must  leave  in  the  soul  an  agonising  doubt. 
And  so  a woman  above  the  common  sort  has  every- 
thing to  gain  by  being  very  reserved  in  her  manner. 
The  game  is  not  fair : against  the  chance  of  a little 
pleasure  or  the  advantage  of  seeming  a little  more  lovable, 
a woman  runs  the  risk  of  a burning  remorse  and  a 
sense  of  shame,  which  must  make  even  the  lover  less  dear. 
An  evening  gaily  passed,  in  care-devil  thoughtless 
fashion,  is  dearly  paid  for  at  the  price.  If  a woman  fears 
she  has  made  this  kind  of  mistake  before  her  lover,  he 
must  become  for  days  together  hateful  in  her  sight. 
Can  one  wonder  at  the  force  of  a habit,  when  the 
lightest  infractions  of  it  are  punished  by  such  cruel 
shame  ? 

As  for  the  utility  of  modesty — she  is  the  mother  of 
love:  impossible,  therefore,  to  doubt  her  claims.  And 
for  the  mechanism  of  the  sentiment — it’s  simple  enough. 
The  soul  is  busy  feeling  shame  instead  of  busy  desiring. 
You  deny  yourself  desires  and  your  desires  lead  to 
actions. 

Evidently  every  woman  of  feeling  and  pride — and, 
these  two  things  being  cause  and  effect,  one  can  hardly 
go  without  the  other — must  fall  into  ways  of  coldness, 
which  the  people  whom  they  disconcert  call  prudery. 

The  accusation  is  all  the  more  specious  because  of  the 
extreme  difficulty  of  steering  a middle  course  : a woman 
has  only  to  have  little  judgment  and  a lot  of  pride, 
and  very  soon  she  will  come  to  believe  that  in  modesty  one 
cannot  go  too  far.  In  this  wray,  an  Englishwoman  takes 
it  as  an  insult,  if  you  pronounce  before  her  the  name 
of  certain  garments.  An  Englishwoman  must  be  very 
careful,  in  the  country,  not  to  be  seen  in  the  evening 
1 Shows  one’s  love  in  a new  way. 


OF  MODESTY 


83 

leaving  the  drawing-room  with  her  husband  ; and,  what 
is  still  more  serious,  she  thinks  it  an  outrage  to  modesty, 
to  show  that  she  is  enjoying  herself  a little  in  the  presence 
of  anyone  but  her  husband.1  It  is  perhaps  due  to  such 
studied  scrupulousness  that  the  English,  a people  of 
judgment,  betray  signs  of  such  boredom  in  their  domestic 
bliss.  Theirs  the  fault— why  so  much  pride  ?2 

To  make  up  for  this — and  to  pass  straight  from  Plymouth 
to  Cadiz  and  Seville — I found  in  Spain  that  the  warmth 
of  climate  and  passions  caused  people  to  overlook  a little 
the  necessary  measure  of  restraint.  The  very  tender 
caresses,  which  I noticed  could  be  given  in  public,  far 
from  seeming  touching,  inspired  me  with  feelings  quite 
the  reverse : nothing  is  more  distressing. 

We  must  expect  to  find  incalculable  the  force  of  habits, 
which  insinuate  themselves  into  women  under  the  pre- 
text of  modesty.  A common  woman,  by  carrying  modesty 
to  extremes,  feels  she  is  getting  on  a level  with  a woman 
of  distinction. 

Such  is  the  empire  of  modesty,  that  a woman  of  feeling 
betrays  her  sentiments  for  her  lover  sooner  by  deed  than 
by  word. 

The  prettiest,  richest  and  most  easy-going  woman  of 
Bologna  has  just  told  me,  how  yesterday  evening  a fool 
of  a Frenchman,  who  is  here  giving  people  a strange 
idea  of  his  nation,  thought  good  to  hide  under  her  bed. 
Apparently  he  did  not  want  to  waste  the  long  string  of 
absurd  declarations,  with  which  he  has  been  pestering 
her  for  a month.  But  the  great  man  should  have  had 
more  presence  of  mind.  He  waited  all  right  till  Madame 

M sent  away  her  maid  and  had  got  to  bed,  but  he  had 

not  the  patience  to  give  the  household  time  to  go  to 
sleep.  She  seized  hold  of  the  bell  and  had  him  thrown 

1 See  the  admirable  picture  of  these  tedious  manners  at  the  end  of 
Corinne  ; and  Madame  de  Stael  has  made  a flattering  portrait. 

* The  Bible  and  Aristocracy  take  a cruel  revenge  upon  people  who 
believe  that  duty  is  everything. 


ON  LOVE 


84 

out  ignominiously,  in  the  midst  of  the  jeers  and  cuffs  of 
five  or  six  lackeys.  “ And  if  he  had  waited  two  hours  ? ” 
I asked  her.  “ I should  have  been  very  badly  off.  ‘ Who 
is  to  doubt,’  he  would  have  said,  ‘ that  I am  here  by  your 
orders  ? ’ 5,1 

After  leaving  this  pretty  woman’s  house,  I went  to  see 
a woman  more  worthy  of  being  loved  than  any  I know. 
Her  extremely  delicate  nature  is  something  greater,  if 
possible,  than  fier  touching  beauty.  I found  her  alone, 

told  the  story  of  Madame  M and  we  discussed  it. 

“Listen,”  was  what  she  said;  “ if  the  man,  who  will  go 
as  far  as  that,  was  lovable  in  the  eyes  of  that  woman 
beforehand,  he’ll  have  her  pardon,  and,  all  in  good  time, 
her  love.”  I own  I was  dumbfounded  by  this  unexpected 
light  thrown  on  the  recesses  of  the  human  heart.  After  a 
short  silence  I answered  her — “ But  will  a man,  who 
loves,  dare  go  to  such  violent  extremities  ? ” 

There  would  be  far  less  vagueness  in  this  chapter  had 
a woman  written  it.  Everything  relating  to  women’s 
haughtiness  or  pride,  to  their  habits  of  modesty  and  its 
excesses,  to  certain  delicacies,  for  the  most  part  dependent 
wholly  on  associations  of  feelings,2  which  cannot  exist 
for  men,  and  often  delicacies  not  founded  on  Nature — 
all  these  things,  I say,  can  only  find  their  way  here  so  far 
as  it  is  permissible  to  write  from  hearsay. 

A woman  once  said  to  me,  in  a moment  of  philosophical 
frankness,  something  which  amounts  to  this : — 

“ If  ever  I sacrificed  my  liberty,  the  man  whom  I 
should  happen  to  favour  would  appreciate  still  more  my 

1 I am  advised  to  suppress  this  detail — “ You  take  me  for  a very- 
doubtful  woman,  to  dare  tell  such  stories  in  my  presence.” 

2 Modesty  is  one  of  the  sources  of  taste  in  dress : by  such  and  such 
an  arrangement,  a woman  engages  herself  in  a greater  or  less  degree. 
This  is  what  makes  dress  lose  its  point  in  old  age. 

A provincial,  who  puts  up  to  follow  the  fashion  in  Paris,  engages 
herself  in  an  awkward  way,  which  makes  people  laugh.  A woman  coming 
to  Paris  from  the  provinces  ought  to  begin  by  dressing  as  if  she  were 
thirty. 


OF  MODESTY 


85 

affection,  by  seeing  how  sparing  I had  always  been  of 
favours — even  of  the  slightest.”  It  is  out  of  preference 
for  this  lover,  whom  perhaps  she  will  never  meet,  that  a 
lovable  woman  will  offer  a cold  reception  to  the  man  who 
is  speaking  to  her  at  the  moment.  That  is  the  first 
exaggeration  of  modesty  ; that  one  can  respect.  The 
second  comes  from  women’s  pride.  The  third  source  of 
exaggeration  is  the  pride  of  husbands. 

To  my  idea,  this  possibility  of  love  presents  itself  often 
to  the  fancy  of  even  the  most  virtuous  woman — and 
why  not  ? Not  to  love,  when  given  by  Heaven  a soul 
made  for  love,  is  to  deprive  yourself  and  others  of  a great 
blessing.  It  is  like  an  orange-tree,  which  would  not 
flower  for  fear  of  committing  a sin.  And  beyond 
doubt  a soul  made  for  love  can  partake  fervently  of  no 
other  bliss.  In  the  would-be  pleasures  of  the  world  it 
finds,  already  at  the  second  trial,  an  intolerable  emptiness. 
Often  it  fancies  tb~t  it  loves  Art  and  Nature  in  its 
grander  aspects,  but  all  they  do  for  it  is  to  hold  out  hopes 
of  love  and  magnify  it,  if  that  is  possible  ; until,  very 
soon,  it  finds  out  that  they  speak  of  a happiness  which  it 
is  resolved  to  forego. 

The  only  thing  I see  to  blame  in  modesty  is  that  it 
leads  to  untruthfulness,  and  that  is  the  only  point  of 
vantage,  which  light  women  have  over  women  of  feeling. 
A light  woman  says  to  you:  “ As  soon,  my  friend,  as  you 
attract  me,  I’ll  tell  you  and  I’ll  be  more  delighted  than 
you  ; because  I have  a great  respect  for  you.” 

The  lively  satisfaction  of  Constance’s  cry  after  her 
lover’s  victory  ! “ How  happy  I am,  not  to  have  given 

myself  to  anyone,  all  these  eight  years  that  I’ve  been  on 
bad  terms  with  my  husband  ! ” 

However  comical  I find  the  line  of  thought,  this  joy 
seems  to  me  full  of  freshness. 

Here  I absolutely  must  talk  about  the  sort  of  regrets, 
felt  by  a certain  lady  of  Seville  who  had  been  deserted 
by  her  lover.  I ought  to  remind  the  reader  that,  in  love, 


86 


ON  LOVE 


everything  is  a sign,  and,  above  all,  crave  the  benefit  of 
a little  indulgence  for  my  style.1 

As  a man,  I think  my  eye  can  distinguish  nine  points 
in  modesty. 

1.  Much  is  staked  against  little  ; hence  extreme  re- 
serve ; hence  often  affectation.  For  example,  one  doesn’t 
laugh  at  what  amuses  one  the  most.  Hence  it  needs 
a great  deal  of  judgment  to  have  just  the  right  amount 
of  modesty.2  That  is  why  many  women  have  not  enough 
in  intimate  gatherings,  or,  to  put  it  more  exactly,  do  not 
insist  on  the  stories  told  them  being  sufficiently  disguised, 
and  only  drop  their  veils  according  to  the  degree  of  their 
intoxication  or  recklessness.3 

Could  it  be  an  effect  of  modesty  and  of  the  deadly 
dullness  it  must  impose  on  many  women,  that  the  majority 
of  them  respect  nothing  in  a man  so  much  as  impudence  ? 
Or  do  they  take  impudence  for  character  ? 

2.  Second  law : “ My  lover  will  think  the  more  of  me 
for  it.” 

3.  Force  of  habit  has  its  way,  even  at  the  moments 
of  greatest  passion. 

4.  To  the  lover,  modesty  offers  very  flattering  plea- 
sures ; it  makes  him  feel  what  laws  are  broken  for  his 
sake. 

5.  And  to  women  it  offers  more  intoxicating  pleasures, 
which,  causing  the  fall  of  a strongly  established  habit, 
throw  the  soul  into  greater  confusion.  The  Comte  de 
Valmont  finds  himself  in  a pretty  woman’s  bedroom  at 

1 P.  84,  note  I. 

2 See  the  tone  of  society  at  Geneva,  above  all  in  the  “ best  ” families — 
use  of  a Court  to  correct  the  tendency  towards  prudery  by  laughing  at 
it — Duclos  telling  stories  to  Madame  de  Rochefort — “ Really,  you  take 
us  for  too  virtuous.”  Nothing  in  the  world  is  so  nauseous  as  modesty 
not  sincere. 

3 “ Ah,  my  dear  Fronsac,  there  are  twenty  bottles  of  champagne 
between  the  story,  that  you’re  beginning  to  tell  us,  and  our  talk  at  this 
time  of  day.” 


OF  MODESTY 


87 

midnight.  The  thing  happens  every  week  to  him;  to 
her  perhaps  every  other  year.  Thus  continence  and 
modesty  must  have  pleasures  infinitely  more  lively  in 
store  for  women.1 

6.  The  drawback  of  modesty  is  that  it  is  always  leading 
to  falsehood. 

7.  Excess  of  modesty,  and  its  severity,  discourages 
gentle  and  timid  hearts  from  loving2 — just  those  made 
for  giving  and  feeling  the  sweets  of  love. 

8.  In  sensitive  women,  who  have  not  had  several  lovers, 
modesty  is  a bar  to  ease  of  manner,  and  for  this  reason  they 
are  rather  apt  to  let  themselves  be  led  by  those  friends, 
who  need  reproach  themselves  with  no  such  failing.3 
They  go  into  each  particular  case,  instead  of  falling  back 
blindly  on  habit.  Delicacy  and  modesty  give  their 
actions  a touch  of  restraint  ; by  being  natural  they  make 

1 It  is  the  story  of  the  melancholy  temperament  and  the  sanguine. 
Consider  a virtuous  woman  (even  the  mercenary  virtue  of  certain  of  the 
faithful — virtue  to  be  had  for  a hundredfold  reward  in  Paradise)  and  a 
blase  debauchee  of  forty.  Although  the  Valmont  (13)  of  the  Liaisons 
Dangereuses  is  not  as  far  gone  as  that,  the  Presidente  de  Tourvel  (13)  is 
happier  than  he  all  the  way  through  the  book  : and  if  the  author,  with  all 
his  wit,  had  had  still  more,  that  would  have  been  the  moral  of  his  in- 
genious novel. 

2 Melancholy  temperament,  which  may  be  called  the  temperament 
of  love.  I have  seen  women,  the  most  distinguished  and  the  most  made 
for  love,  give  the  preference,  for  want  of  sense,  to  the  prosaic,  sanguine 
temperament.  (Story  of  Alfred,  Grande  Chartreuse,  1810.) 

I know  no  thought  which  incites  me  more  to  keep  what  is  called  bad 
company. 

(Here  poor  Visconti  loses  himself  in  the  clouds.) 

Fundamentally  all  women  are  the  same  so  far  as  concerns  the  move- 
ments of  the  heart  and  passion  : the  forms  the  passions  take  are  different. 
Consider  the  difference  made  by  greater  fortune,  a more  cultivated  mind, 
the  habit  of  higher  thoughts,  and,  above  all,  (and  more’s  the  pity)  a 
more  irritable  pride. 

Such  and  such  a word  irritates  a princess,  but  would  not  in  the  very 
least  shock  an  Alpine  shepherdess.  Only,  once  their  anger  is  up,  the 
passion  works  in  princess  and  shepherdess  the  same).  (The  Editor’s  only 
note.) 

3 M.’s  remark. 


88 


ON  LOVE 


themselves  appear  unnatural ; but  this  awkwardness  is 
akin  to  heavenly  grace. 

If  familiarity  in  them  sometimes  resembles  tenderness, 
it  is  because  these  angelic  souls  are  coquettes  without 
knowing  it.  They  are  disinclined  to  interrupt  their 
dreams,  and,  to  save  themselves  the  trouble  of  speaking 
and  finding  something  both  pleasant  and  polite  to  say  to 
a friend  (which  would  end  in  being  nothing  but  polite), 
they  finish  by  leaning  tenderly  on  his  arm.1 

9.  Women  only  dare  be  frank  by  halves ; which  is  the 
reason  why  they  very  rarely  reach  the  highest,  when 
they  become  authors,  but  which  also  gives  a grace  to 
their  shortest  note.  For  them  to  be  frank  means  going 
out  without  a fichu.  For  a man  nothing  more  fre- 
quent than  to  write  absolutely  at  the  dictate  of  his 
imagination,  without  knowing  where  he  is  going. 

Resume 

The  usual  fault  is  to  treat  woman  as  a kind  of  man,  but 
more  generous,  more  changeable  and  with  whom,  above 
all,  no  rivalry  is  possible.  It  is  only  too  easy  to  forget 
that  there  are  two  new  and  peculiar  laws,  which  tyran- 
nise over  these  unstable  beings,  in  conflict  with  all 
the  ordinary  impulses  of  human  nature — I mean  : — 

Feminine  pride  and  modesty,  and  those  often  inscru- 
table habits  born  of  modesty. 

1 Vol.  Guarna. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


THE  GLANCE 

THIS  is  the  great  weapon  of  virtuous  coquetry. 

With  a glance,  one  may  say  everything,  and  yet 
one  can  always  deny  a glance  ; for  it  cannot  be  repeated 
textually. 

This  reminds  me  of  Count  G , the  Mirabeau  of  Rome. 

The  delightful  little  government  of  that  land  has  taught 
him  an  original  way  of  telling  stories  by  a broken  string 
of  words,  which  say  everything — and  nothing.  He  makes 
his  whole  meaning  clear,  but  repeat  who  will  his  sayings 
word  for  word,  it  is  impossible  to  compromise  him. 
Cardinal  Lante  told  him  he  had  stolen  this  talent  from 
women — yes,  and  respectable  women,  I add.  This 
roguery  is  a cruel,  but  just,  reprisal  on  man’s  tyranny. 


89 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


OF  FEMININE  PRIDE 

ALL  their  lives  women  hear  mention  made  by  men 
L of  things  claiming  importance — large  profits,  success 
in  war,  people  killed  in  duels,  fiendish  or  admirable 
revenges,  and  so  on.  Those  of  them,  whose  heart  is 
proud,  feel  that,  being  unable  to  reach  these  things, 
they  are  not  in  a position  to  display  any  pride  remarkable 
for  the  importance  of  what  it  rests  on.  They  feel  a 
heart  beat  in  their  breast,  superior  by  the  force  and  pride 
of  its  movements  to  all  which  surrounds  them,  and  yet 
they  see  the  meanest  of  men  esteem  himself  above  them. 
They  find  out,  that  all  their  pride  can  only  be  for  little 
things,  or  at  least  for  things,  which  are  without  impor- 
tance except  for  sentiment,  and  of  which  a third  party 
cannot  judge.  Maddened  by  this  desolating  contrast 
between  the  meanness  of  their  fortune  and  the  conscious 
worth  of  their  soul,  they  set  about  making  their  pride 
worthy  of  respect  by  the  intensity  of  its  fits  or  by  the 
relentless  tenacity  with  which  they  hold  by  its  dictates. 
Before  intimate  intercourse  women  of  this  kind  imagine, 
when  they  see  their  lover,  that  he  has  laid  siege  to  them. 
Their  imagination  is  absorbed  in  irritation  at  his  endea- 
vours, which,  after  all,  cannot  do  otherwise  than  witness 
to  his  love — seeing  that  he  does  love.  Instead  of  enjoying 
the  feelings  of  the  man  of  their  preference,  their  vanity 
is  up  in  arms  against  him  ; and  it  comes  to  this,  that, 
with  a soul  of  the  tenderest,  so  long  as  its  sensibility  is  not 
centred  on  a special  object,  they  have  only  to  love,  in 

90 


OF  FEMININE  PRIDE  91 

order,  like  a common  flirt,  to  be  reduced  to  the  barest 
vanity. 

A woman  of  generous  character  will  sacrifice  her  life  a 
thousand  times  for  her  lover,  but  will  break  with  him 
for  ever  over  a question  of  pride — for  the  opening  or 
shutting  of  a door.  Therein  lies  their  point  of  honour. 
Well ! Napoleon  came  to  grief  rather  than  yield  a 
village. 

I have  seen  a quarrel  of  this  kind  last  longer  than  a 
year.  It  was  a woman  of  the  greatest  distinction  who 
sacrificed  all  her  happiness,  sooner  than  give  her  lover 
the  chance  of  entertaining  the  slightest  possible  doubt  of 
the  magnanimity  of  her  pride.  The  reconciliation  was 
the  work  of  chance,  and,  on  my  friend’s  side,  due  to  a 
moment  of  weakness,  which,  on  meeting  her  lover,  she 
was  unable  to  overcome.  She  imagined  him  forty  miles 
away,  and  found  him  in  a place,  where  certainly  he  did 
not  expect  to  see  her.  She  could  not  hide  the  first  trans- 
ports of  delight  ; her  lover  was  more  overcome  than 
she ; they  almost  fell  at  each  other’s  feet  and  never  have 
I seen  tears  flow  so  abundantly — it  was  the  unlooked-for 
appearance  of  happiness.  Tears  are  the  supreme  smile. 

The  Duke  of  Argyll  gave  a fine  example  of  presence  of 
mind,  in  not  drawing  Feminine  Pride  into  a combat,  in 
the  interview  he  had  at  Richmond  with  Queen  Caroline.1 
The  more  nobility  in  a woman’s  character,  the  more 
terrible  are  these  storms — 

As  the  blackest  sky 
Foretells  the  heaviest  tempest. 

( Don  Juan) 

Can  it  be  that  the  more  fervently,  in  the  normal 
course  of  life,  a woman  delights  in  the  rare  qualities  of 
her  lover,  the  more  she  tries,  in  those  cruel  moments, 
when  sympathy  seems  turned  to  the  reverse,  to  wreak 
her  vengeance  on  what  usually  she  sees  in  him  superior 

1 The  Heart  of  Midlothian. 


92  ON  LOVE 

to  other  people  ? She  is  afraid  of  being  confounded  with 
them. 

It  is  a precious  long  time  since  I read  that  boring 
Clarissa  ; but  I think  it  is  through  feminine  pride  that 
she  lets  herself  die,  and  does  not  accept  the  hand  of 
Lovelace. 

Lovelace’s  fault  was  great ; but  as  she  did  love  him  a 
little,  she  could  have  found  pardon  in  her  heart  for  a 
crime,  of  which  the  cause  was  love. 

Monime,  on  the  contrary,  seems  to  me  a touching 
model  of  feminine  delicacy.  What  cheek  does  not  blush 
with  pleasure  to  hear  from  the  lips  of  an  actress  worthy 
of  the  part : — 

That  fatal  love  which  I had  crushed  and  conquered, 

Your  wiles  detected,  and  I cannot  now 
Disown  what  I confess’d  ; you  cannot  raze 
Its  memory ; the  shame  of  that  avowal, 

To  which  you  forced  me,  will  abide  for  ever 
Present  before  my  mind,  and  I should  think 
That  you  were  always  of  my  faith  uncertain. 

The  grave  itself  to  me  were  less  abhorrent 
Than  marriage  bed  shared  with  a spouse,  who  took 
Cruel  advantage  of  my  simple  trust, 

And,  to  destroy  my  peace  for  ever,  fann’d 
A flame  that  fired  my  cheek  for  other  love 
Than  his.1 

I can  picture  to  myself  future  generations  saying : 
“ So  that’s  what  Monarchy2  was  good  for — to  produce 
that  sort  of  character  and  their  portrayal  by  great 
artists.” 

And  yet  I find  an  admirable  example  of  this  delicacy 
even  in  the  republics  of  the  Middle  Ages ; which  seems 
to  destroy  my  system  of  the  influence  of  governments  on 
the  passions,  but  which  I shall  cite  in  good  faith. 

1 Racine,  Mithridates,  Act  IV,  Sc.  4.  [From  the  Metrical  English 
version  of  R.  B.  Boswell.  (Bohn’s  Standard  Library. — Tr.)] 

2 Monarchy  without  charter  and  without  chambers. 


OF  FEMININE  PRIDE 


93 

The  reference  is  to  those  very  touching  verses  of 
Dante : 

Deh  ! quando  tu  sarai  tomato  al  mondo 

Ricordati  di  me,  che  son  la  Pia  ; 

Siena  mi  f£  ; disfecemi  Maremma  ; 

Salsi  colui,  che  inanellata  pria 

Disposando,  m’avea  con  la  sua  gemma. 

Purgatorio,  Cant.  V.1 

The  woman,  who  speaks  with  so  much  restraint,  had 
suffered  in  secret  the  fate  of  Desdemona,  and,  by  a word, 
could  make  known  her  husband’s  crime  to  the  friends, 
whom  she  had  left  on  earth. 

Nello  della  Pietra  won  the  hand  of  Madonna  Pia  (14), 
sole  heiress  of  the  Tolomei,  the  richest  and  noblest  family 
of  Sienna.  Her  beauty,  which  was  the  admiration  of 
Tuscany,  sowed  in  her  husband’s  heart  the  seed  of 
jealousy,  which,  envenomed  by  false  reports  and  sus- 
picions ever  and  anon  rekindled,  led  him  to  a heinous 
project.  It  is  difficult,  at  this  hour,  to  decide  whether 
his  wife  was  altogether  innocent,  but  Dante  represents 
her  as  such. 

Her  husband  carried  her  off  into  the  fens  of  Volterra, 
famous  then,  as  now,  for  the  effects  of  the  aria  cattiva. 
Never  would  he  tell  his  unhappy  wife  the  reason  of  her 
exile  in  so  dangerous  a place.  His  pride  did  not  deign 
to  utter  complaint  or  accusation.  He  lived  alone  with 
her  in  a deserted  tower,  the  ruins  of  which  by  the  edge 
of  the  sea  I have  been  myself  to  visit.  There  he  never 
broke  his  scornful  silence,  never  answered  his  young 
wife’s  questions,  never  listened  to  her  prayers.  Coldly 
he  waited  at  her  side  for  the  pestilential  air  to  have  its 
effect.  The  exhalations  of  these  morasses  were  not  long 
in  withering  those  features — the  loveliest,  it  is  said, 

1 Ah ! when  you  are  returned  to  the  world  of  the  living,  give  me  a 
passing  thought.  I am  la  Pia.  Sienna  gave  me  life,  death  took  me  in  our 
fens.  He  who,  wedding  me,  gave  me  his  ring,  knows  my  story. 


94 


ON  LOVE 


which,  in  that  century,  the  world  had  seen.  In  a few 
months  she  died.  Some  chroniclers  of  those  remote 
times  report  that  Nello  used  the  dagger  to  hasten  her 
end.  She  died  in  the  fens  in  some  horrible  way  ; but 
the  kind  of  death  was  a mystery  even  to  her  contempor- 
aries. Nello  della  Pietra  survived  to  pass  the  rest  of  his 
days  in  a silence  which  he  never  broke. 

Nothing  nobler  and  more  delicate  than  the  way  in 
which  young  la  Pia  addresses  Dante.  She  wishes  to  be 
recalled  to  the  memory  of  the  friends,  whom  she  had 
left  on  earth  so  young  ; and  yet,  telling  who  she  is  and 
giving  the  name  of  her  husband,  she  will  not  allow  herself 
the  slightest  complaint  against  a piece  of  cruelty  unheard 
of,  but  for  the  future  irreparable  ; she  only  points  out 
that  he  knows  the  story  of  her  death. 

This  constancy  in  pride’s  revenge  is  not  met,  I think, 
except  in  the  countries  of  the  South. 

In  Piedmont  I happened  to  be  the  involuntary  witness 
of  something  very  nearly  parallel ; though  at  the  time 
I did  not  know  the  details.  I was  sent  with  twenty-five 
dragoons  into  the  woods  along  the  Sesia,  to  intercept 
contraband.  Arriving  in  the  evening  at  this  wild  and 
desolate  spot,  I caught  sight  between  the  trees  of  the 
ruins  of  an  old  castle.  I went  up  to  it  and  to  my 
great  surprise — it  was  inhabited.  I found  within  a 
nobleman  of  the  country,  of  sinister  appearance,  a man 
six  foot  high  and  forty  years  old.  He  gave  me  two  rooms 
with  a bad  grace.  I passed  my  time  playing  music  with 
my  quartermaster  ; after  some  days,  we  discovered  that 
our  friend  kept  a woman  in  the  background,  whom  we 
used  to  call  Camille,  laughingly  ; but  we  were  far  from 
suspecting  the  fearful  truth.  Six  weeks  later  she  was 
dead.  I had  the  morbid  curiosity  to  see  her  in  the  coffin, 
paying  a monk,  who  was  watching,  to  introduce  me  into 
the  chapel  towards  midnight,  under  pretext  of  going  to 
sprinkle  holy  water.  There  I found  one  of  those  superb 
faces,  which  are  beautiful  even  in  the  arms  of  death  ; 


OF  FEMININE  PRIDE 


95 

she  had  a large  aquiline  nose — the  nobility  and  delicacy 
of  its  outline  I shall  never  forget.  Then  I left  that 
deadly  spot.  Five  years  later,  a detachment  of  my 
regiment  accompanying  the  Emperor  to  his  coronation 
as  King  of  Italy  (15),  I had  the  whole  story  told  me.  I 

learnt  that  the  jealous  husband,  Count , had  found 

one  morning  fastened  to  his  wife’s  bed  an  English  watch, 
belonging  to  a young  man  of  the  small  town  in  which 
they  lived.  That  very  day  he  carried  her  off  to  the 
ruined  castle  in  the  midst  of  the  woods  of  the  Sesia. 
Like  Nello  della  Pietra,  he  never  uttered  a single  word. 
If  she  made  him  any  request,  he  coldly  and  silently 
presented  to  her  the  English  watch,  which  he  carried 
always  with  him.  Almost  three  years  passed,  spent  thus 
alone  with  her.  At  last  she  died  of  despair,  in  the  flower 
of  life.  Her  husband  tried  to  put  a knife  into  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  watch,  missed  him,  passed  on  to  Genoa, 
took  ship  and  no  one  has  heard  of  him  since.  His  property 
has  been  divided. 

As  for  these  women  with  feminine  pride,  if  you  take 
their  injuries  with  a good  grace,  which  the  habits  of  a 
military  life  make  easy,  you  annoy  these  proud  souls  ; 
they  take  you  for  a coward,  and  very  soon  become  out- 
rageous. Such  lofty  characters  yield  with  pleasure  to 
men  whom  they  see  overbearing  with  other  men.  That 
is,  I fancy,  the  only  way — you  must  often  pick  a quarrel 
with  your  neighbour  in  order  to  avoid  one  with  your 
mistress. 

One  day  Miss  Cornel,  the  celebrated  London  actress, 
was  surprised  by  the  unexpected  appearance  of  the  rich 
colonel,  whom  she  found  useful.  She  happened  to  be  with 
a little  lover,  whom  she  just  liked — and  nothing  more. 
“ Mr.  So-and-so,”  says  she  in  great  confusion  to  the 
colonel,  “ has  come  to  see  the  pony  I want  to  sell.” 
“ I am  here  for  something  very  different,”  put  in 
proudly  the  little  lover  who  was  beginning  to  bore  her, 
but  whom,  from  the  moment  of  that  answer,  she  started 


ON  LOVE 


96 

to  love  again  madly.1  Women  of  that  kind  sympathise 
with  their  lover’s  haughtiness,  instead  of  exercising  at 
his  expense  their  own  disposition  to  pride. 

The  character  of  the  Due  de  Lauzun  (that  of  16602), 
if  they  can  forgive  the  first  day  its  want  of  grace,  is  very 
fascinating  for  such  women,  and  perhaps  for  all  women 
of  distinction.  Grandeur  on  a higher  plane  escapes 
them  ; they  take  for  coldness  the  calm  gaze  which 
nothing  escapes,  but  which  a detail  never  disturbs.  Have 
I not  heard  women  at  the  Court  of  Saint-Cloud  maintain 
that  Napoleon  had  a dry  and  prosaic  character  ?3  A 
great  man  is  like  an  eagle  : the  higher  he  rises  the  less 
he  is  visible,  and  he  is  punished  for  his  greatness  by  the 
solitude  of  his  soul. 

From  feminine  pride  arises  what  women  call  want  of 
refinement.  I fancy,  it  is  not  at  all  unlike  what  kings 
call  lese  majeste,  a crime  all  the  more  dangerous,  because 

1 I always  come  back  from  Miss  Cornel’s  full  of  admiration  and  pro- 
found views  on  the  passions  laid  bare.  Her  very  imperious  way  of  giving 
orders  to  her  servants  has  nothing  of  despotism  in  it : she  merely  sees 
with  precision  and  rapidity  what  has  to  be  done. 

Incensed  against  me  at  the  beginning  of  the  visit,  she  thinks  no  more 
about  it  at  the  end.  She  tells  me  in  detail  of  the  economy  of  her  passion 
for  Mortimer.  “ I prefer  seeing  him  in  company  than  alone  with  me.” 
A woman  of  the  greatest  genius  could  do  no  better,  for  she  has  the 
courage  to  be  perfectly  natural  and  is  unhampered  by  any  theory.  “ I’m 
happier  an  actress  than  the  wife  of  a peer.” — A great  soul  whose  friend- 
ship I must  keep  for  my  enlightenment. 

2 Loftiness  and  courage  in  small  matters,  but  a passionate  care  for 
these  small  matters. — The  vehemence  of  the  choleric  temperament. — His 
behaviour  towards  Madame  de  Monaco  (Saint-Simon,  V.  383)  and  ad- 
venture under  the  bed  of  Madame  de  Montespan  while  the  king  was 
there. — Without  the  care  for  small  matters,  this  character  would  remain 
invisible  to  the  eye  of  women. 

3 When  Minna  Troil  heard  a tale  of  woe  or  of  romance,  it  was  then 
her  blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks  and  showed  plainly  how  warm  it  beat, 
notwithstanding  the  generally  serious,  composed  and  retiring  disposition 
which  her  countenance  and  demeanour  seemed  to  exhibit.  ( The  Pirate, 
Chap.  III.) 

Souls  like  Minna  Troil,  in  whose  judgment  ordinary  circumstances  are 
not  worth  emotion,  by  ordinary  people  are  thought  cold. 


OF  FEMININE  PRIDE 


97 


one  slips  into  it  without  knowing.  The  tenderest  lover 
may  be  accused  of  wanting  refinement,  if  he  is  not  very 
sharp,  or,  what  is  sadder,  if  he  dares  give  himself  up  to 
the  greatest  charm  of  love — the  delight  of  being  per- 
fectly natural  with  the  loved  one  and  of  not  listening 
to  what  he  is  told. 

These  are  the  sort  of  things,  of  which  a well-born 
heart  could  have  no  inkling  ; one  must  have  experience, 
in  order  to  believe  in  them ; for  we  are  misled  by  the  habit 
of  dealing  justly  and  frankly  with  our  men  friends. 

It  is  necessary  to  keep  in  mind  incessantly  that  we 
have  to  do  with  beings,  who  can,  however  wrongly, 
think  themselves  inferior  in  vigour  of  character,  or,  to 
put  it  better,  can  think  that  others  believe  they  are 
inferior. 

Should  not  a woman’s  true  pride  reside  in  the  power 
of  the  feeling  she  inspires  ? A maid  of  honour  to  the 
queen  and  wife  of  Francis  I was  chaffed  about  the  fickle- 
ness of  her  lover,  who,  it  was  said,  did  not  really  love  her. 
A little  time  after,  this  lover  had  an  illness  and  reappeared 
at  Court — dumb.  Two  years  later,  people  showing  sur- 
prise one  day  that  she  still  loved  him,  she  turned  to  him, 
saying  : “ Speak.”  And  he  spoke. 


H 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


OF  WOMEN’S  COURAGE 

I tell  thee,  proud  Templar,  that  not  in  thy  fiercest  battles  hast  thou 
displayed  more  of  thy  vaunted  courage  than  has  been  shewn  by  women, 
when  called  upon  to  suffer  by  affection  or  duty.  ( Ivanhoc .) 

I REMEMBER  meeting  the  following  phrase  in  a 
book  of  history : “ All  the  men  lost  their  head : 
that  is  the  moment  when  women  display  an  incontest- 
able superiority.” 

Their  courage  has  a reserve  which  that  of  their  lover 
wants  ; he  acts  as  a spur  to  their  sense  of  worth.  They 
find  so  much  pleasure  in  being  able,  in  the  fire  of  danger, 
to  dispute  the  first  place  for  firmness  with  the  man, 
who  often  wounds  them  by  the  proudness  of  his  protec- 
tion and  his  strength,  that  the  vehemence  of  that  enjoy- 
ment raises  them  above  any  kind  of  fear,  which  at  the 
moment  is  the  man’s  weak  point.  A man,  too,  if  the 
same  help  were  given  him  at  the  same  moment,  would 
show  himself  superior  to  everything  ; for  fear  never 
resides  in  the  danger,  but  in  ourselves. 

Not  that  I mean  to  depreciate  women’s  courage — I 
have  seen  them,  on  occasions,  superior  to  the  bravest 
men.  Only  they  must  have  a man  to  love.  Then  they 
no  longer  feel  except  through  him  ; and  so  the  most 
obvious  and  personal  danger  becomes,  as  it  were,  a rose 
to  gather  in  his  presence.1 

I have  found  also  in  women,  who  did  not  love,  intre- 

1 Mary  Stuart  speaking  of  Leicester,  after  the  interview  with  Elizabeth, 
where  she  had  just  met  her  doom.  (Schiller.) 

9« 


OF  WOMEN’S  COURAGE 


99 

pidity,  the  coldest,  the  most  surprising  and  the  most 
exempt  from  nerves. 

It  is  true,  I have  always  imagined  that  they  are  so 
brave,  only  because  they  do  not  know  the  tiresomeness 
of  wounds  ! 

As  for  moral  courage,  so  far  superior  to  the  other,  the 
firmness  of  a woman  who  resists  her  love  is  simply  the 
most  admirable  thing,  which  can  exist  on  earth.  All  other 
possible  marks  of  courage  are  as  nothing  compared  to  a 
thing  so  strongly  opposed  to  nature  and  so  arduous. 
Perhaps  they  find  a source  of  strength  in  the  habit  of 
sacrifice,  which  is  bred  in  them  by  modesty. 

Hard  on  women  it  is  that  the  proofs  of  this  courage 
should  always  remain  secret  and  be  almost  impossible 
to  divulge. 

Still  harder  that  it  should  always  be  employed  against 
their  own  happiness : the  Princesse  de  Cleves  would  have 
done  better  to  say  nothing  to  her  husband  and  give 
herself  to  M.  de  Nemours. 

Perhaps  women  are  chiefly  supported  by  their  pride  in 
making  a fine  defence,  and  imagine  that  their  lover  is 
staking  his  vanity  on  having  them — a petty  and  miser- 
able idea.  A man  of  passion,  who  throws  himself 
with  a light  heart  into  so  many  ridiculous  situations, 
must  have  a lot  of  time  to  be  thinking  of  vanity  ! 
It  is  like  the  monks  who  mean  to  catch  the  devil  and 
find  their  reward  in  the  pride  of  hair-shirts  and  macera- 
tions. 

I should  think  that  Madame  de  Cleves  would  have 
repented,  had  she  come  to  old  age, — to  the  period  at 
which  one  judges  life  and  when  the  joys  of  pride  appear 
in  all  their  meanness.  She  would  have  wished  to  have 
lived  like  Madame  de  la  Fayette.1 

1 It  is  well  known  that  that  celebrated  woman  was  the  author,  prob- 
ably in  company  with  M.  de  la  Rochefoucauld,  of  the  novel,  La  Princesse 
de  Cleves,  and  that  the  two  authors  passed  together  in  perfect  friendship 
the  last  twenty  years  of  their  life.  That  is  exactly  love  d I’ltalienne. 


IOO 


ON  LOVE 


I have  just  re-read  a hundred  pages  of  this  essay:  and 
a pretty  poor  idea  I have  given  of  true  love,  of  love 
which  occupies  the  entire  soul,  fills  it  with  fancies,  now 
the  happiest,  now  heart-breaking — but  always  sublime — 
and  makes  it  completely  insensible  to  all  the  rest  of 
creation.  I am  at  a loss  to  express  what  I see  so  well ; 
I have  never  felt  more  painfully  the  want  of  talent. 
How  bring  into  relief  the  simplicity  of  action  and  of 
character,  the  high  seriousness,  the  glance  that  reflects 
so  truly  and  so  ingenuously  the  passing  shade  of  feeling, 
and  above  all,  to  return  to  it  again,  that  inexpressible 
What  care  I ? for  all  that  is  not  the  woman  we  love  ? 
A yes  or  a no  spoken  by  a man  in  love  has  an  unction 
which  is  not  to  be  found  elsewhere,  and  is  not  found  in 
that  very  man  at  other  times.  This  morning  (August 
3rd)  I passed  on  horseback  about  nine  o’clock  in  front 
of  the  lovely  English  garden  of  Marchese  Zampieri, 
situated  on  the  last  crests  of  those  tree-capped  hills,  on 
which  Bologna  rests,  and  from  which  so  fine  a view  is 
enjoyed  over  Lombardy  rich  and  green — the^  fairest 
country  in  the  world.  In  a copse  of  laurels,  belonging 
to  the  Giardino  Zampieri,  which  dominates  the  path  I 
was  taking,  leading  to  the  cascade  of  the  Reno  at  Casa 
Lecchio,  I saw  Count  Delfante.  He  was  absorbed  in 
thought  and  scarcely  returned  my  greeting,  though  we 
had  passed  the  night  together  till  two  o’clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. I went  to  the  cascade,  I crossed  the  Reno  ; after 
which,  passing  again,  at  least  three  hours  later,  under  the 
copse  of  the  Giardino  Zampieri,  I saw  him  still  there.  He 
was  precisely  in  the  same  position,  leaning  against  a great 
pine,  which  rises  above  the  copse  of  laurels — but  this  detail 
I am  afraid  will  be  found  too  simple  and  pointless.  He 
came  up  to  me  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  asking  me  not 
to  go  telling  people  of  his  trance.  I was  touched,  and 
suggested  retracing  my  steps  and  going  with  him  to 
spend  the  day  in  the  country.  At  the  end  of  two 
hours  he  had  told  me  everything.  His  is  a fine  soul, 


OF  WOMEN’S  COURAGE  ioi 

but  oh ! the  coldness  of  these  pages,  compared  to  his 
story. 

Furthermore,  he  thinks  his  love  is  not  returned — 
which  is  not  my  opinion.  In  the  fair  marble  face  of 
the  Contessa  Ghigi,  with  whom  we  spent  the  evening, 
one  can  read  nothing.  Only  now  and  then  a light  and 
sudden  blush,  which  she  cannot  check,  just  betrays  the 
emotions  of  that  soul,  which  the  most  exalted  feminine 
pride  disputes  with  deeper  emotions.  You  see  the 
colour  spread  over  her  neck  of  alabaster  and  as  much  as 
one  catches  of  those  lovely  shoulders,  worthy  of  Canova. 
She  somehow  finds  a way  of  diverting  her  black  and  sombre 
eyes  from  the  observation  of  those,  whose  penetration 
alarms  her  woman’s  delicacy  ; but  last  night,  at  some- 
thing which  Delfante  was  saying  and  of  which  she  dis- 
approved, I saw  a sudden  blush  spread  all  over  her.  Her 
lofty  soul  found  him  less  worthy  of  her. 

But  when  all  is  said,  even  if  I were  mistaken  in  my 
conjectures  on  the  happiness  of  Delfante,  vanity  apart, 
I think  him  happier  than  I,  in  my  indifference,  although 
I am  in  a thoroughly  happy  position,  in  appearance  and 
in  reality. 

Bologna,  August  yd,  1 8 1 8. 


CHAPTER  XXX 


A PECULIAR  AND  MOURNFUL  SPECTACLE 

WOMEN  with  their  feminine  pride  visit  the  in- 
iquities of  the  fools  upon  the  men  of  sense, 
and  those  of  the  prosaic,  prosperous  and  brutal  upon  the 
noble-minded.  A very  pretty  result — you’ll  agree  ! 

The  petty  considerations  of  pride  and  worldly  pro- 
prieties are  the  cause  of  many  women’s  unhappiness,  for, 
through  pride,  their  parents  have  placed  them  in  their 
abominable  position.  Destiny  has  reserved  for  them, 
as  a consolation  far  superior  to  all  their  misfortunes,  the 
happiness  of  loving  and  being  loved  with  passion,  when 
suddenly  one  fine  day  they  borrow  from  the  enemy  this 
same  mad  pride,  of  which  they  were  the  first  victims — 
all  to  kill  the  one  happiness  which  is  left  them,  to  work 
their  own  misfortune  and  the  misfortune  of  him,  who 
loves  them.  A friend,  who  has  had  ten  famous  intrigues 
(and  by  no  means  all  one  after  another),  gravely 
persuades  them  that  if  they  fall  in  love,  they  will  be 
dishonoured  in  the  eyes  of  the  public,  and  yet  this  worthy 
public,  who  never  rises  above  low  ideas,  gives  them 
generously  a lover  a year  ; because  that,  it  says,  “ is  the 
thing.”  Thus  the  soul  is  saddened  by  this  odd  spectacle  : 
a woman  of  feeling,  supremely  refined  and  an  angel  of 

purity,  on  the  advice  of  a low  t , runs  away  from  the 

boundless,  the  only  happiness  which  is  left  to  her,  in 
order  to  appear  in  a dress  of  dazzling  white,  before  a 
great  fat  brute  of  a judge,  whom  everyone  knows  has 
been  blind  a hundred  years,  and  who  bawls  out  at  the 
top  of  his  voice : “ She  is  dressed  in  black  ! ” 

102 


CHAPTER  XXXI 


EXTRACT  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  SALVIATI 

Ingenium  nobis  ipsa  puella  facit. 

( Propertius , II,  I.) 

Bologna,  April  29 tk,  1818. 

Driven  to  despair  by  the  misfortune  to  which 
love  has  reduced  me,  I curse  existence.  I have  no  heart 
for  anything.  The  weather  is  dull ; it  is  raining,  and  a 
late  spell  of  cold  has  come  again  to  sadden  nature,  who 
after  a long  winter  was  hurrying  to  meet  the  spring. 

Schiassetti,  a half-pay  colonel,  my  cold  and  reasonable 
friend,  came  to  spend  a couple  of  hours  with  me 
“ You  should  renounce  your  love.” 

“ How  ? Give  me  back  my  passion  for  war.” 

“ It  is  a great  misfortune  for  you  to  have  known  her.” 
I agree  very  nearly — so  low-spirited  and  craven 
do  I feel — so  much  has  melancholy  taken  possession 
of  me  to-day.  We  discuss  what  interest  can  have  led 
her  friend  to  libel  me,  but  find  nothing  but  that  old 
Neapolitan  proverb  : “ Woman,  whom  love  and  youth 
desert,  a nothing  piques.”  What  is  certain  is  that  that 
cruel  woman  is  enraged  with  me — it  is  the  expression  of 
one  of  her  friends.  I could  revenge  myself  in  a fearful 
way,  but,  against  her  hatred,  I am  without  the  smallest 
means  of  defence.  Schiassetti  leaves  me.  I go  out  into 
the  rain,  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  myself.  My 
rooms,  this  drawing-room,  which  I lived  in  during  the 
first  days  of  our  acquaintance,  and  when  I saw  her  every 
evening,  have  become  insupportable  to  me.  Each  en- 
graving, each  piece  of  furniture,  brings  up  again  the 

i°3 


io4  ON  LOVE 

happiness  I dreamed  of  in  their  presence — which  now  I 
have  lost  for  ever. 

I tramped  the  streets  through  a cold  rain  : chance,  if 
I can  call  it  chance,  made  me  pass  under  her  windows. 
Night  was  falling  and  I went  along,  my  eyes  full  of  tears 
fixed  on  the  window  of  her  room.  Suddenly  the  curtains 
were  just  drawn  aside,  as  if  to  give  a glimpse  into  the 
square,  then  instantly  closed  again.  I felt  within  me  a 
physical  movement  about  the  heart.  I was  unable  to 
support  myself  and  took  refuge  under  the  gateway  of 
the  next  house.  A thousand  feelings  crowrd  upon  my 
soul.  Chance  may  have  produced  this  movement  of  the 
curtains  ; but  oh  ! if  it  was  her  hand  that  had  drawn 
them  aside. 

There  are  two  misfortunes  in  the  world : passion 
frustrated  and  the  “ dead  blank.” 

In  love — I feel  that  two  steps  away  from  me  exists 
a boundless  happiness,  something  beyond  all  my  prayers, 
which  depends  upon  nothing  but  a word,  nothing  but  a 
smile. 

Passionless  like  Schiassetti,  on  gloomy  days  I see 
happiness  nowhere,  I come  to  doubt  if  it  exists  for 
me,  I fall  into  depression.  One  ought  to  be  without 
strong  passions  and  have  only  a little  curiosity  or  vanity. 

It  is  two  o’clock  in  the  morning  ; I have  seen  that 
little  movement  of  the  curtain  ; at  six  o’clock  I paid  some 
calls  and  went  to  the  play,  but  everywhere,  silent  and 
dreaming,  I passed  the  evening  examining  this  question  : 
“ After  so  much  anger  with  so  little  foundation  (for 
after  all  did  I wish  to  offend  her  and  is  there  a thing  on 
earth  which  the  intention  does  not  excuse  ?) — has  she 
felt  a moment  of  love  ? ” 

Poor  Salviati,  who  wrote  the  preceding  lines  on  his 
Petrarch,  died  a short  time  after.  He  was  the  intimate 
friend  of  Schiassetti  and  myself  ; we  knew  all  his  thoughts, 
and  it  is  from  him  that  I have  all  the  tearful  part  of 
this  essay.  He  was  imprudence  incarnate  ; moreover, 


EXTRACT  FROM  DIARY  OF  SALVIATI  105 

the  woman,  for  whom  he  went  to  such  wild  lengths,  is 
the  most  interesting  creature  that  I have  met.  Schiassetti 
said  to  me : “ But  do  you  think  that  that  unfortunate 
passion  was  without  advantages  for  Salviati  ? To  begin 
with,  the  most  worrying  of  money  troubles  that  can  be 
imagined  came  upon  him.  These  troubles,  which  reduced 
him  to  a very  middling  fortune  after  his  dazzling  youth, 
and  would  have  driven  him  mad  with  anger  in  any  other 
circumstances,  crossed  his  mind  not  once  in  two  weeks. 

“ And  then — a matter  of  importance  of  a quite  different 
kind  for  a mind  of  his  range — that  passion  is  the  first 
true  course  of  logic,  which  he  ever  had.  That  may  seem 
peculiar  in  a man  who  has  been  at  Court ; but  the  fact 
is  explained  by  his  extreme  courage.  For  example,  he 

passed  without  winking  the  day  of , the  day  of  his 

undoing ; he  was  surprised  then,  as  in  Russia  (16),  not  to 
feel  anything  extraordinary.  It  is  an  actual  fact,  that  his 
fear  of  anything  had  never  gone  so  far  as  to  make  him 
think  about  it  for  two  days  together.  Instead  of  this 
callousness,  the  last  two  years  he  was  trying  every  minute 
to  be  brave.  Before  he  had  never  seen  danger. 

“ When  as  a result  of  his  imprudence  and  his  faith  in 
the  generosity  of  critics,1  he  had  managed  to  get  con- 
demned to  not  seeing  the  woman  he  was  in  love  with, 
except  twice  a month,  we  would  see  him  pass  those  even- 
ings, talking  to  her  as  if  intoxicated  with  joy,  because  he 
had  been  received  with  that  noble  frankness  which  he 

worshipped.  He  held  that  Madame  and  he  were 

two  souls  without  their  like,  who  should  understand  each 
other  with  a glance.  It  was  beyond  him  to  grasp  that 
she  should  pay  the  least  attention  to  petty  bourgeois 
comments,  which  tried  to  make  a criminal  of  him.  The 
result  of  this  fine  confidence  in  a woman,  surrounded  by  his 
enemies,  was  to  find  her  door  closed  to  him. 

“ ‘ With  M ,’  I used  to  say  to  him,  ‘ you  forget 

1 Sotto  l’usbcrgo  del  sentirsi  pura.  [Under  the  shield  of  conscious 
purity. — Tr.]  (Dante,  Inf.,  XXVIII,  1 17.) 


io6 


ON  LOVE 


your  maxim — that  you  mustn’t  believe  in  greatness  of 
soul,  except  in  the  last  extremity.’ 

44  4 Do  you  think,’  he  answered,  4 that  the  world  con- 
tains another  heart  which  is  more  suited  to  hers  ? True, 
I pay  for  this  passionate  way  of  being,  which  Leonore, 
in  anger,  made  me  see  on  the  horizon  in  the  line  of  the 
rocks  of  Poligny,  with  the  ruin  of  all  the  practical  enter- 
prises of  my  life — a disaster  which  comes  from  my  lack 
of  patient  industry  and  imprudence  due  to  the  force  of 
momentary  impressions.’  ” One  can  see  the  touch  of 
madness  ! 

For  Salviati  life  was  divided  into  periods  of  a fortnight, 
which  took  their  hue  from  the  last  interview,  which  he 
had  been  granted.  But  I noticed  often,  that  the  happi- 
ness he  owed  to  a welcome,  which  he  thought  less  cold, 
was  far  inferior  in  intensity  to  the  unhappiness  with  which 
a hard  reception  overwhelmed  him.1  At  times  Madame 

failed  to  be  quite  honest  with  him  ; and  these  are 

the  only  two  criticisms  I ever  dared  offer  him.  Beyond 
the  more  intimate  side  of  his  sorrow,  of  which  he  had 
the  delicacy  never  to  speak  even  to  the  friends  dearest 
to  him  and  most  devoid  of  envy,  he  saw  in  a hard  recep- 
tion from  Leonore  the  triumph  of  prosaic  and  scheming 
beings  over  the  open-hearted  and  the  generous.  At  those 
times  he  lost  faith  in  virtue  and,  above  all,  in  glory.  It  was 
his  way  to  talk  to  his  friends  only  of  sad  notions,  to 
which  it  is  true  his  passion  led  up,  but  notions  capable 
besides  of  having  some  interest  in  the  eyes  of  philosophy. 
I was  curious  to  observe  that  uncommon  soul.  Ordin- 
arily passion-love  is  found  in  people,  a little  simple  in  the 
German  way.2  Salviati,  on  the  contrary,  wras  among  the 
firmest  and  sharpest  men  I have  known. 

I seemed  to  notice  that,  after  these  cruel  visits,  he  had 

1 That  is  a thing  which  I have  often  seemed  to  notice  in  love — that 
propensity  to  reap  more  unhappiness  from  what  is  unhappy  than  happi- 
ness from  what  is  happy. 

! Don  Carlos,  (17)  Saint-Preux,  (17)  Racine’s  Hippolyte  and  Bajazet. 


EXTRACT  FROM  DIARY  OF  SALVIATI  107 

no  peace  until  he  had  found  a justification  for  Leonore’s 
severities.  So  long  as  he  felt  that  she  might  have  been 
wrong  in  ill-using  him,  he  was  unhappy.  Love,  so  devoid 
of  vanity,  I should  never  have  thought  possible. 

He  was  incessantly  singing  us  the  praises  of  love. 

“ If  a supernatural  power  said  to  me  : Break  the  glass 
of  that  watch  and  Leonore  will  be  for  you,  what  she  was 
three  years  ago,  an  indifferent  friend — really  I believe  I 
would  never  as  long  as  I live  have  the  courage  to  break 
it.”  I saw  in  these  discourses  such  signs  of  madness,  that 
I never  had  the  courage  to  offer  my  former  objections. 

He  would  add:  “Just  as  Luther’s  Reformation  at  the 
end  of  the  Middle  Ages,  shaking  society  to  its  base, 
renewed  and  reconstructed  the  world  on  reasonable 
foundations,  so  is  a generous  character  renewed  and  re- 
tempered by  love. 

“ It  is  only  then,  that  he  casts  off  all  the  baubles  of 
life  ; without  this  revolution  he  would  always  have  had 
in  him  a pompous  and  theatrical  something.  It  is  only 
since  I began  to  love  that  I have  learnt  to  put  greatness 
into  my  character — such  is  the  absurdity  of  education  at 
our  military  academy. 

“ Although  I behaved  well,  I was  a child  at  the  Court 
of  Napoleon  and  at  Moscow.  I did  my  duty,  but  I 
knew  nothing  of  that  heroic  simplicity,  the  fruit  of  entire 
and  whole-hearted  sacrifice.  For  example,  it  is  only  this 
last  year,  that  my  heart  takes  in  the  simplicity  of  the 
Romans  in  Livy.  Once  upon  a time,  I thought  them  cold 
compared  to  our  brilliant  colonels.  What  they  did  for 
their  Rome,  I find  in  my  heart  for  Leonore.  If  I had  the 
luck  to  be  able  to  do  anything  for  her,  my  first  desire 
would  be  to  hide  it.  The  conduct  of  a Regulus  or  a 
Decius  was  something  confirmed  beforehand,  which  had 
no  claim  to  surprise  them.  Before  I loved,  I was  small, 
precisely  because  I was  tempted  sometimes  to  think 
myself  great  ; I felt  a certain  effort,  for  which  I 
applauded  myself. 


io8 


ON  LOVE 


“ And,  on  the  side  of  affection,  what  do  we  not  owe 
to  love  ? After  the  hazards  of  early  youth,  the  heart  is 
closed  to  sympathy.  Death  and  absence  remove  our  early 
companions,  and  we  are  reduced  to  passing  our  life  with 
lukewarm  partners,  measure  in  hand,  for  ever  calculating 
ideas  of  interest  and  vanity.  Little  by  little  all  the  sensi- 
tive and  generous  region  of  the  soul  becomes  waste,  for 
want  of  cultivation,  and  at  less  than  thirty  a man  finds 
his  heart  steeled  to  all  sweet  and  gentle  sensations.  In 
the  midst  of  this  arid  desert,  love  causes  a well  of  feelings 
to  spring  up,  fresher  and  more  abundant  even  than  that 
of  earliest  youth.  In  those  days  it  was  a vague  hope, 
irresponsible  and  incessantly  distracted1 — no  devotion 
to  one  thing,  no  deep  and  constant  desire  ; the  soul,  at 
all  times  light,  was  athirst  for  novelty  and  forgot  to-day 
its  adoration  of  the  day  before.  But,  than  the  crystallisa- 
tion of  love  nothing  is  more  concentrated,  more  mysteri- 
ous, more  eternally  single  in  its  object.  In  those  days 
only  agreeable  things  claimed  to  please  and  to  please 
for  an  instant : now  we  are  deeply  touched  by  every- 
thing which  is  connected  with  the  loved  one — even  by 
objects  the  most  indifferent.  Arriving  at  a great  town, 
a hundred  miles  from  that  which  Leonore  lives  in,  I 
was  in  a state  of  fear  and  trembling  ; at  each  street 
corner  I shuddered  to  meet  Alviza,  the  intimate  friend  of 

Madame  , although  I did  not  know  her.  For  me 

everything  took  a mysterious  and  sacred  tint.  My  heart 
beat  fast,  while  talking  to  an  old  scholar  ; for  I could  not 
hear  without  blushing  the  name  of  the  city  gate,  near 
which  the  friend  of  Leonore  lives. 

“ Even  the  severities  of  the  woman  we  love  have  an 
infinite  grace,  which  the  most  flattering  moments  in  the 
company  of  other  women  cannot  offer.  It  is  like  the  great 
shadows  in  Correggio’s  pictures,  which  far  from  being, 
as  in  other  painters,  passages  less  pleasant,  but  necessary 
in  order  to  give  effect  to  the  lights  and  relief  to  the  figures, 
1 Mordaunt  Mertoun,  Pirate,  Vol.  I, 


EXTRACT  FROM  DIARY  OF  SALVIATI  109 

have  graces  of  their  own  which  charm  and  throw  us  into 
a gentle  reverie.1 

“ Yes,  half  and  the  fairest  half  of  life  is  hidden  from 
the  man,  who  has  not  loved  with  passion.” 

Salviati  had  need  of  the  whole  force  of  his  dialectic 
powers,  to  hold  his  own  against  the  wise  Schiassetti,  who 
was  always  saying  to  him : “ You  want  to  be  happy, 
then  be  content  with  a life  exempt  from  pains  and  with 
a small  quantity  of  happiness  every  day.  Keep  yourself 
from  the  lottery  of  great  passions.” 

“ Then  give  me  your  curiosity,”  was  Salviati’s  answer. 

I imagine  there  were  not  a few  days,  when  he  would 
have  liked  to  be  able  to  follow  the  advice  of  our  sensible 
colonel ; he  made  a little  struggle  and  thought  he  was 
succeeding  ; but  this  line  of  action  was  absolutely  beyond 
his  strength.  And  yet  what  strength  was  in  that  soul  ! 

A white  satin  hat,  a little  like  that  of  Madame , 

seen  in  the  distance  in  the  street,  made  his  heart  stop 
beating,  and  forced  him  to  rest  against  the  wall.  Even 
in  his  blackest  moments,  the  happiness  of  meeting  her 
gave  him  always  some  hours  of  intoxication,  beyond  the 
reach  of  all  misfortune  and  all  reasoning.2  For  the  rest, 
at  the  time  of  his  death3  his  character  had  certainly  con- 
tracted more  than  one  noble  habit,  after  two  years  of 

1  As  I have  mentioned  Correggio,  I will  add  that  in  the  sketch  of  an 
angel’s  head  in  the  gallery  of  the  museum  at  Florence,  is  to  be  seen  the 
glance  of  happy  love,  and  at  Parma  in  the  Madonna  crowned  by  Jesus 
the  downcast  eyes  of  love. 

2  Come  what  sorrow  can 
It  cannot  countervail  the  exchange  of  joy 

That  one  short  moment  gives  me  in  her  sight. — ( Romeo  and  Juliet.) 

3  Some  days  before  the  last  he  made  a little  ode,  which  has  the  merit 
of  expressing  just  the  sentiments,  which  formed  the  subject  of  our 
conversations : — 

L’ULTIMO  DI. 

Anacreontica. 

A ELVIRA. 

Vedi  tu  dove  il  rio 

Lambendo  un  mirto  va, 


IIO 


ON  LOVE 


this  generous  and  boundless  passion ; and,  in  so  far  at 
least,  he  judged  himself  correctly.  Had  he  lived, 
and  circumstances  helped  him  a little,  he  would 

La  del  riposo  mio 
La  pietra  surgerL 
II  passero  amoroso, 

E il  nobile  usignuol 
Entro  quel  mirto  ombroso 
Raccoglieranno  il  vol. 

Vieni,  diletta  Elvira, 

A quella  tomba  vien, 

E sulla  muta  lira, 

Appoggia  il  bianco  sen. 

Su  quella  bruna  pietra, 

Le  tortore  verran, 

E intorno  alia  mia  cetra, 

Il  nido  intrecieran. 

E ogni  anno,  il  di  che  offendere 
M’osasti  tu  infedel, 

Faro  la  su  discendere 
La  folgore  del  ciel. 

Odi  d’un  uom  che  muore 
Odi  l’estremo  suon 
Questo  appassito  fiore 
Ti  lascio,  Elvira,  in  don 
Quanto  prezioso  ei  sia 

Saper  tu  il  devi  appien 
Il  di  che  fosti  mia, 

Te  l’involai  dal  sen. 

Simbolo  allor  d’affetto 
Or  pegno  di  dolor 
Torno  a posarti  in  petto 
Quest’  appassito  fior. 

E avrai  nel  cuor  scolpito 
Se  crudo  il  cor  non  £, 

Come  ti  fu  rapito, 

Come  fu  reso  a te. — (S.  Radael.)1 

1 [Lo ! where  the  passing  stream  laps  round  the  myrtle-tree,  raise 
there  the  stone  of  my  resting-place.  The  amorous  sparrow  and  the 
noble  nightingale  within  the  shade  of  that  myrtle  will  rest  from  flight. 
Come,  beloved  Elvira,  come  to  that  tomb  and  press  my  mute  lyre  to 
your  white  bosom.  Turtles  shall  perch  on  that  dark  stone  and  will 
twine  their  nest  about  my  harp.  And  every  year  on  the  day  when  you 


EXTRACT  FROM  DIARY  OF  SALVIATI  in 


have  made  a name  for  himself.  Maybe  also,  just 
through  his  simplicity,  his  merit  would  have  passed 
on  this  earth  unseen. 


O lasso 

Quanti  dolci  pensier,  quanto  desio 

Meno  costui  al  doloroso  passo  ! 

Biondo  era,  e bello,  e di  gentile  aspetto  ; 

Ma  l’un  de’  cigli  un  colpo  avea  diviso. 

( Dante .)* 

did  dare  cruelly  betray  me,  on  this  spot  will  I make  the  lightning  of  heaven 
descend.  Listen,  listen  to  the  last  utterances  of  a dying  man.  This 
faded  flower,  Elvira,  is  the  gift  I leave  you.  How  precious  it  is  you 
must  know  full  well : from  your  bosom  I stole  it  the  day  you  became 
mine.  Then  it  was  a symbol  of  love ; now  as  a pledge  of  suffering  I 
will  put  it  back  in  your  bosom — this  faded  flower.  And  you  shall  have 
engraved  on  your  heart,  if  a woman’s  heart  you  have,  how  it  was 
snatched  from  you,  how  it  was  returned.] 

1 “ Poor  wretch,  how  many  sweet  thoughts,  what  constancy  brought 
him  to  his  last  hour.  He  was  fair  and  beautiful  and  gentle  of  countenance, 
only  a noble  scar  cut  through  one  of  his  eyebrows.” 


CHAPTER  XXXII 


OF  INTIMATE  INTERCOURSE 

THE  greatest  happiness  that  love  can  give — ’tis  first 
joining  your  hand  to  the  hand  of  a woman  you  love. 
The  happiness  of  gallantry  is  quite  otherwise — far 
more  real,  and  far  more  subject  to  ridicule. 

In  passion-love  intimate  intercourse  is  not  so  much 
perfect  delight  itself,  as  the  last  step  towards  it. 

But  how  depict  a delight,  which  leaves  no  memories 
behind  ? 

Mortimer  returned  from  a long  voyage  in  fear  and 
trembling  ; he  adored  Jenny,  but  Jenny  had  not  an- 
swered his  letters.  On  his  arrival  in  London,  he  mounts 
his  horse  and  goes  off  to  find  her  at  her  country 
home.  When  he  gets  there,  she  is  walking  in  the  park  ; 
he  runs  up  to  her,  with  beating  heart,  meets  her  and  she 
offers  him  her  hand  and  greets  him  with  emotion  ; he 
sees  that  she  loves  him.  Roaming  together  along  the 
glades  of  the  park,  Jenny’s  dress  became  entangled  in 
an  acacia  bush.  Later  on  Mortimer  won  her ; but 
Jenny  was  faithless.  I maintain  to  him  that  Jenny 
never  loved  him  and  he  quotes,  as  proof  of  her  love,  the 
way  in  which  she  received  him  at  his  return  from  the 
Continent ; but  he  could  never  give  me  the  slightest 
details  of  it.  Only  he  shudders  visibly  directly  he  sees 
an  acacia  bush : really,  it  is  the  only  distinct  remembrance 
he  succeeded  in  preserving  of  the  happiest  moment  of 
his  life.1 

A sensitive  and  open  man,  a former  chevalier , confided 
1 Life  of  Haydn  (18). 


1 12 


OF  INTIMATE  INTERCOURSE 


ll3 

to  me  this  evening  (in  the  depth  of  our  craft  buffeted 
by  a high  sea  on  the  Lago  di  Garda1)  the  history  of  his 
loves,  which  I in  my  turn  shall  not  confide  to  the  public. 
But  I feel  myself  in  a position  to  conclude  from  them 
that  the  day  of  intimate  intercourse  is  like  those  fine  days 
in  May,  a critical  period  for  the  fairest  flowers,  a moment 
which  can  be  fatal  and  wither  in  an  instant  the  fairest 
hopes. 

2 

• ••••« 

Naturalness  cannot  be  praised  too  highly.  It  is  the 
only  coquetry  permissible  in  a thing  so  serious  as  love 
a la  Werther ; in  which  a man  has  no  idea  where  he  is 
going,  and  in  which  at  the  same  time  by  a lucky  chance  for 
virtue,  that  is  his  best  policy.  A man,  really  moved,  says 
charming  things  unconsciously  ; he  speaks  a language 
which  he  does  not  know  himself. 

Woe  to  the  man  the  least  bit  affected  ! Given  he  were 
in  love,  allow  him  all  the  wit  in  the  world,  he  loses 
three-quarters  of  his  advantages.  Let  him  relapse  for  an 
instant  into  affectation — a minute  later  comes  a moment 
of  frost. 

The  whole  art  of  love,  as  it  seems  to  me,  reduces  itself 
to  saying  exactly  as  much  as  the  degree  of  intoxication  at 
the  moment  allows  of,  that  is  to  say  in  other  terms,  to 
listen  to  one’s  heart.  It  must  not  be  thought,  that  this  is 
so  easy ; a man,  who  truly  loves,  has  no  longer  strength  to 
speak,  when  his  mistress  says  anything  to  make  him  happy. 

1 20  September,  1811. 

* At  the  first  quarrel  Madame  Ivernetta  gave  poor  Bariac  his  conge. 
Bariac  was  truly  in  love  and  this  conge  threw  him  into  despair  ; but  his 
friend  Guillaume  Balaon,  whose  life  we  are  writing,  was  of  great  help 
to  him  and  managed,  finally,  to  appease  the  severe  Ivernetta.  Peace  was 
restored,  and  the  reconciliation  was  accompanied  by  circumstances  so 
delicious,  that  Bariac  swore  to  Balaon  that  the  hour  of  the  first  favours 
he  had  received  from  his  mistress  had  not  been  as  sweet  as  that  of  this 
voluptuous  peacemaking.  These  words  turned  Balaon’s  head  ; he  wanted 
to  know  this  pleasure,  of  which  his  friend  had  just  given  him  a descrip- 
tion, etc.  etc.  ( Vie  de  quelques  Troubadours , by  Nivernois,  Vol.  I,  p.  32.) 


1 


114 


ON  LOVE 


Thus  he  loses  the  deeds  which  his  words1  would  have 
given  birth  to.  It  is  better  to  be  silent  than  say  things 
too  tender  at  the  wrong  time,  and  what  was  in  point 
ten  seconds  ago,  is  now  no  longer — in  fact  at  this  moment 
it  makes  a mess  of  things.  Every  time  that  I used  to 
infringe  this  rule2  and  say  something,  which  had  come 
into  my  head  three  minutes  earlier  and  which  I thought 
pretty,  Leonore  never  failed  to  punish  me.  And  later  I 
would  say  to  myself,  as  I went  away — “ She  is  right.”  This 
is  the  sort  of  thing  to  upset  women  of  delicacy  extremely ; 
it  is  indecency  of  sentiment.  Like  tasteless  rhetoricians, 
they  are  readier  to  admit  a certain  degree  of  weakness 
and  coldness.  There  being  nothing  in  the  world  to 
alarm  them  but  the  falsity  of  their  lover,  the  least  little 
insincerity  of  detail,  be  it  the  most  innocent  in  the  world, 
robs  them  instantly  of  all  delight  and  puts  mistrust  into 
their  heart. 

Respectable  women  have  a repugnance  to  what  is 
vehement  and  unlooked  for — those  being  none  the  less 
characteristics  of  passion — and,  furthermore,  that  vehem- 
ence alarms  their  modesty  ; they  are  on  the  defensive 
against  it. 

When  a touch  of  jealousy  or  displeasure  has  occasioned 
some  chilliness,  it  is  generally  possible  to  begin  subjects, 
fit  to  give  birth  to  the  excitement  favourable  to  love, 
and,  after  the  first  two  or  three  phrases  of  introduction, 
as  long  as  a man  does  not  miss  the  opportunity  of  saying 
exactly  what  his  heart  suggests,  the  pleasure  he  will  give 
to  his  loved  one  will  be  keen.  The  fault  of  most  men  is 
that  they  want  to  succeed  in  saying  something,  which 
they  think  either  pretty  or  witty  or  touching — instead  of 

1 It  is  this  kind  of  timidity  which  is  decisive,  and  which  is  proof  of 
passion-love  in  a clever  man. 

a Remember  that,  if  the  author  uses  sometimes  the  expression  “ I,” 
it  is  an  attempt  to  give  the  form  of  this  essay  a little  variety.  He  does 
not  in  the  least  pretend  to  fill  the  readers’  ears  with  the  story  of  his  own 
feelings.  His  aim  is  to  impart,  with  as  little  monotony  as  possible,  what 
he  has  observed  in  others. 


OF  INTIMATE  INTERCOURSE  115 

releasing  their  soul  from  the  false  gravity  of  the  world, 
until  a degree  of  intimacy  and  naturalness  brings  out  in 
simple  language  what  they  are  feeling  at  the  moment. 
The  man,  who  is  brave  enough  for  this,  will  have  in- 
stantly his  reward  in  a kind  of  peace-making. 

It  is  this  reward,  as  swift  as  it  is  involuntary,  of  the 
pleasure  one  gives  to  the  object  of  one’s  love,  which  puts 
this  passion  so  far  above  the  others. 

If  there  is  perfect  naturalness  between  them,  the 
happiness  of  two  individuals  comes  to  be  fused  together.1 
This  is  simply  the  greatest  happiness  which  can  exist, 
by  reason  of  sympathy  and  several  other  laws  of  human 
nature. 

It  is  quite  easy  to  determine  the  meaning  of  this 
word  naturalness — essential  condition  of  happiness  in 
love. 

We  call  natural  that  which  does  not  diverge  from  an 
habitual  way  of  acting.  It  goes  without  saying  that  one 
must  not  merely  never  lie  to  one’s  love,  but  not  even 
embellish  the  least  bit  or  tamper  with  the  simple  outline 
of  truth.  For  if  a man  is  embellishing,  his  attention  is 
occupied  in  doing  so  and  no  longer  answers  simply  and 
truly,  as  the  keys  of  a piano,  to  the  feelings  mirrored 
in  his  eye.  The  woman  finds  it  out  at  once  by  a certain 
chilliness  within  her,  and  she,  in  her  turn,  falls  back  on 
coquetry.  Might  not  here  be  found  hidden  the  cause 
why  it  is  impossible  to  love  a woman  with  a mind  too 
far  below  one’s  own — the  reason  being  that,  in  her  case, 
one  can  make  pretence  with  impunity,  and,  as  that 
course  is  more  convenient,  one  abandons  oneself  to  un- 
naturalness by  force  of  habit  ? From  that  moment  love 
is  no  longer  love  ; it  sinks  to  the  level  of  an  ordinary 
transaction — the  only  difference  being  that,  instead  of 
money,  you  get  pleasure  or  flattery  or  a mixture  of  both. 
It  is  hard  not  to  feel  a shade  of  contempt  for  a woman, 
before  whom  one  can  with  impunity  act  a part,  and 
1 Resides  in  exactly  the  same  actions. 


ii  6 


ON  LOVE 


consequently,  in  order  to  throw  her  over,  one  only  needs 
to  come  across  something  better  in  her  line.  Habit  or 
vow  may  hold,  but  I am  speaking  of  the  heart’s  desire, 
whose  nature  it  is  to  fly  to  the  greatest  pleasure. 

To  return  to  this  word  natural — natural  and  habitual 
are  two  different  things.  If  one  takes  these  words  in  the 
same  sense,  it  is  evident  that  the  more  sensibility  in  a 
man,  the  harder  it  is  for  him  to  be  natural,  since  the 
influence  of  habit  on  his  way  of  being  and  acting  is  less 
powerful,  and  he  himself  is  more  powerful  at  each  new 
event.  In  the  life-story  of  a cold  heart  every  page  is  the 
same : take  him  to-day  or  take  him  to-morrow,  it  is  always 
the  same  dummy. 

A man  of  sensibility,  so  soon  as  his  heart  is  touched, 
loses  all  traces  of  habit  to  guide  his  action  ; and  how  can 
he  follow  a path,  which  he  has  forgotten  all  about  ? 

He  feels  the  enormous  weight  attaching  to  every  word 
which  he  says  to  the  object  of  his  love — it  seems  to  him  as 
if  a word  is  to  decide  his  fate.  How  is  he  not  to  look  about 
for  the  right  word  ? At  any  rate,  how  is  he  not  to  have 
the  feeling  that  he  is  trying  to  say  “ the  right  thing  ” ? 
And  then,  there  is  an  end  of  candour.  And  so  we  must 
give  up  our  claim  to  candour,  that  quality  of  our  being, 
which  never  reflects  upon  itself.  We  are  the  best  we 
can  be,  but  we  feel  what  we  are. 

I fancy  this  brings  us  to  the  last  degree  of  naturalness, 
to  which  the  most  delicate  heart  can  pretend  in  love. 

A man  of  passion  can  but  cling  might  and  main,  as  his 
only  refuge  in  the  storm,  to  the  vow  never  to  change  a 
jot  or  tittle  of  the  truth  and  to  read  the  message  of 
his  heart  correctly.  If  the  conversation  is  lively  and 
fragmentary,  he  may  hope  for  some  fine  moments  of 
naturalness : otherwise  he  will  only  be  perfectly  natural 
in  hours  when  he  will  be  a little  less  madly  in  love. 

In  the  presence  of  the  loved  one,  we  hardly  retain 
naturalness  even  in  our  movements,  however  deeply 
such  habits  are  rooted  in  the  muscles.  When  I gave  my 


OF  INTIMATE  INTERCOURSE 


ii  7 


arm  to  Leonore,  I always  felt  on  the  point  of  stumbling, 
and  I wondered  if  I was  walking  properly.  The  most 
one  can  do  is  never  to  be  affected  willingly  : it  is  enough 
to  be  convinced  that  want  of  naturalness  is  the  greatest 
possible  disadvantage,  and  can  easily  be  the  source  of 
the  greatest  misfortunes.  For  the  heart  of  the  woman, 
whom  you  love,  no  longer  understands  your  own  ; you 
lose  that  nervous  involuntary  movement  of  sincerity, 
which  answers  the  call  of  sincerity.  It  means  the  loss  of 
every  way  of  touching,  I almost  said  of  winning  her. 
Not  that  I pretend  to  deny,  that  a woman  worthy  of  love 
may  see  her  fate  in  that  pretty  image  of  the  ivy,  which 
“ dies  if  it  does  not  cling  ” — that  is  a law  of  Nature  ; 
but  to  make  your  lover’s  happiness  is  none  the  less  a step 
that  will  decide  your  own.  To  me  it  seems  that  a reason- , 
able  woman  ought  not  to  give  in  completely  to  her  lover, 
until  she  can  hold  out  no  longer,  and  the  slightest  doubt 
thrown  on  the  sincerity  of  your  heart  gives  her  there  and 
then  a little  strength — enough  at  least  to  delay  her  defeat 
still  another  day.1 

Is  it  necessary  to  add  that  to  make  all  this  the  last 
word  in  absurdity  you  have  only  to  apply  it  to  gallant- 
love  ? 

1 Haec  autem  ad  acerbam  rei  memoriam,  amara  quadam  dulcedine, 
scribere  visum  est — ut  cogitem  nihil  esse  debere  quod  amplius  mihi 
placeat  in  hac  vita.  ( Petrarch , Ed.  Marsand.)  [These  things,  to  be  a 
painful  reminder,  yet  not  without  a certain  bitter  charm,  I have  seen 
good  to  write — to  remind  me  that  nothing  any  longer  can  give  me 
pleasure  in  this  life. — Tr.] 

15  January,  1819. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 


ALWAYS  a little  doubt  to  allay — that  is  what  whets 
our  appetite  every  moment,  that  is  wThat  makes 
the  life  of  happy  love.  As  it  is  never  separated  from  fear, 
so  its  pleasures  can  never  tire.  The  characteristic  of  this 
happiness  is  its  high  seriousness. 


1 1 8 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 


OF  CONFIDENCES 

THERE  is  no  form  of  insolence  so  swiftly  punished 
as  that  which  leads  you,  in  passion-love,  to  take  an 
intimate  friend  into  your  confidence.  He  knows  that,  if 
what  you  say  is  true,  you  have  pleasures  a thousand  times 
greater  than  he,  and  that  your  own  make  you  despise  his. 

It  is  far  worse  between  women — their  lot  in  life  being 
to  inspire  a passion,  and  the  confidante  having  commonly 
also  displayed  her  charms  for  the  advantage  of  the  lover. 

On  the  other  hand,  for  anyone  a prey  to  this  fever, 
there  is  no  moral  need  more  imperative  than  that  of  a 
friend,  before  whom  to  dilate  on  the  fearful  doubts 
which  at  every  instant  beset  his  soul ; for  in  this  terrible 
passion,  always  a thing  imagined  is  a thing  existent. 

“ A great  fault  in  Salviati’s  character,”  he  writes  in 
1817,  “ — in  this  point  how  opposed  to  Napoleon’s! — is 
that  when,  in  the  discussion  of  interests  in  which  passion 
is  concerned,  something  is  at  last  morally  proved,  he 
cannot  resolve  to  take  that  as  a fact  once  and  for  all 
established  and  as  a point  to  start  from.  In  spite  of 
himself  and  greatly  to  his  hurt,  he  brings  it  again  and 
again  under  discussion.”  The  reason  is  that,  in  the  field 
of  ambition,  it  is  easy  to  be  brave.  Crystallisation,  not 
being  subjected  to  the  desire  of  the  thing  to  be  won, 
helps  to  fortify  our  courage  ; in  love  it  is  wholly  in 
the  service  of  the  object  against  which  our  courage  is 
wanted. 

A woman  may  find  an  unfaithful  friend,  she  also  may 
find  one  with  nothing  to  do. 

ng 


120 


ON  LOVE 


A princess  of  thirty-five,1  with  nothing  to  do  and  dogged 
by  the  need  of  action,  of  intrigue,  etc.  etc.,  discon- 
tented with  a lukewarm  lover  and  yet  unable  to  hope 
to  sow  the  seeds  of  another  love,  with  no  use  to  make 
of  the  energy  which  is  consuming  her,  with  no  other 
distraction  than  fits  of  black  humour,  can  very  well 
find  an  occupation,  that  is  to  say  a pleasure,  and  a life’s 
work,  in  accomplishing  the  misfortune  of  a true  passion 
— passion  which  someone  has  the  insolence  to  feel  for 
another  than  herself,  while  her  own  lover  falls  to  sleep 
at  her  side. 

It  is  the  only  case  in  which  hate  produces  happiness  ; 
the  reason  being  that  it  procures  occupation  and  work. 

Just  at  first,  the  pleasure  of  doing  something,  and,  as 
soon  as  the  design  is  suspected  by  society,  the  prick  of 
doubtful  success  add  a charm  to  this  occupation.  Jealousy 
of  the  friend  takes  the  mask  of  hatred  for  the  lover  ; 
otherwise  how  would  it  be  possible  to  hate  so  madly  a 
man  one  has  never  set  eyes  on  ? You  cannot  recognise 
the  existence  of  envy,  or,  first,  you  would  have  to  recog- 
nise the  existence  of  merit ; and  there  are  flatterers  about 
you  who  only  hold  their  place  at  Court  by  poking  fun 
at  your  good  friend. 

The  faithless  confidante , all  the  while  she  is  indul- 
ging in  villainies  of  the  deepest  dye,  may  quite  well 
think  herself  solely  animated  by  the  desire  not  to  lose 
a precious  friendship.  A woman  with  nothing  to  do 
tells  herself  that  even  friendship  languishes  in  a heart 
devoured  by  love  and  its  mortal  anxieties.  Friendship 
can  only  hold  its  own,  by  the  side  of  love,  by  the  exchange 
of  confidences ; but  then  what  is  more  odious  to  envy 
than  such  confidences  ? 

The  only  kind  of  confidences  well  received  between 
women  are  those  accompanied  in  all  its  frankness  by  a 
statement  of  the  case  such  as  this : — “ My  dear  friend,  in 
this  war  as  absurd  as  it  is  relentless,  which  the  prejudices, 
1 Venice,  1819, 


OF  CONFIDENCES 


121 


brought  into  vogue  by  our  tyrants,  wage  upon  us,  you 
help  me  to-day — to-morrow  it  will  be  my  turn.”1 

Beyond  this  exception  there  is  another — that  of  true 
friendship  born  in  childhood  and  not  marred  since  by 
any  jealousy  . . . 


The  confidences  of  passion-love  are  only  well  received 
between  schoolboys  in  love  with  love,  and  girls  eaten  up 
with  unemployed  curiosity  and  tenderness  or  led  on 
perhaps  by  the  instinct,2  which  whispers  to  them  that 
there  lies  the  great  business  of  their  life,  and  that  they 
cannot  look  after  it  too  early. 

We  have  all  seen  little  girls  of  three  perform  quite 
creditably  the  duties  of  gallantry.  Gallant-love  is  in- 
flamed, passion-love  chilled  by  confidences. 

Apart  from  the  danger,  there  is  the  difficulty  of 
confidences.  In  passion-love,  things  one  cannot  express 
(because  the  tongue  is  too  gross  for  such  subtleties) 
exist  none  the  less ; only,  as  these  are  things  of  extreme 
delicacy,  we  are  more  liable  in  observing  them  to  make 
mistakes. 

Also,  an  observer  in  a state  of  emotion  is  a bad  observer ; 
he  won’t  allow  for  chance. 

Perhaps  the  only  safe  way  is  to  make  yourself  your 
own  confidant.  Write  down  this  evening,  under  borrowed 

1 Memoirs  of  Madame  d’Epinay,  Geliotte. 

Prague,  Klagenfurth,  all  Moravia,  etc.  etc.  Their  women  are  great 
wits  and  their  men  are  great  hunters.  Friendship  is  very  common 
between  the  women.  The  country  enjoys  its  fine  season  in  the  winter ; 
among  the  nobles  of  the  province  a succession  of  hunting  parties  takes 
place,  each  lasting  from  fifteen  to  twenty  days.  One  of  the  cleverest 
of  these  nobles  said  to  me  one  day  that  Charles  V had  reigned  legiti- 
mately over  all  Italy,  and  that,  consequently,  it  was  all  in  vain  for  the 
Italians  to  want  to  revolt.  The  wife  of  this  good  man  read  the  Letters 
of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse.  (Znaym,  1816.) 

8 Important  point.  It  seems  to  me  that  independent  of  their  educa- 
tion, which  begins  at  eight  or  ten  months,  there  is  a certain  amount  of 
instinct. 


122 


ON  LOVE 


names,  but  with  all  the  characteristic  details,  the  dialogue 
you  had  just  now  with  the  woman  you  care  for,  and  the 
difficulty  which  troubles  you.  In  a week,  if  it  is  passion- 
love,  you  will  be  a different  man,  and  then,  rereading 
your  consultation,  you  will  be  able  to  give  a piece  of 
good  advice  to  yourself. 

In  male  society,  as  soon  as  there  are  more  than  two 
together,  and  envy  might  make  its  appearance,  politeness 
allows  none  but  physical  love  to  be  spoken  of — think  of 
the  end  of  dinners  among  men.  It  is  Baffo’s  sonnets1  that 
are  quoted  and  which  give  such  infinite  pleasure  ; because 
each  one  takes  literally  the  praises  and  excitement  of  his 
neighbour,  who,  quite  often,  merely  wants  to  appear 
lively  or  polite.  The  sweetly  tender  words  of  Petrarch 
or  French  madrigals  would  be  out  of  place. 

1 The  Venetian  dialect  boasts  descriptions  of  physical  love  which  for 
vivacity  leave  Horace,  Propertius,  La  Fontaine  and  all  the  poets  a hundred 
miles  behind.  M.  Buratti  of  Venice  is  at  the  moment  the  first  satirical 
poet  of  our  unhappy  Europe.  He  excels  above  all  in  the  description  of 
the  physical  grotesqueness  of  his  heroes ; and  he  finds  himself  frequently 
in  prison.  (See  F Elejanteide,  FUomo,  la  Strefeide) 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
OF  JEALOUSY 

WHEN  you  are  in  love,  as  each  new  object  strikes 
your  eye  or  your  memory,  whether  crushed  in  a 
gallery  and  patiently  listening  to  a parliamentary  debate, 
or  galloping  to  the  relief  of  an  outpost  under  the  enemy’s 
fire,  you  never  fail  to  add  a new  perfection  to  the  idea 
you  have  of  your  mistress,  or  discover  a new  means 
(which  at  first  seems  excellent)  of  winning  her  love  still 
more. 

Each  step  the  imagination  takes  is  repaid  by  a moment 
of  sweet  delight.  No  wonder  that  existence,  such  as  this, 
takes  hold  of  one. 

Directly  jealousy  comes  into  existence,  this  turn  of  feel- 
ings continues  in  itself  the  same,  though  the  effect  it  is  to 
produce  is  contrary.  Each  perfection  that  you  add  to  the 
crown  of  your  beloved,  who  now  perhaps  loves  someone 
else,  far  from  promising  you  a heavenly  contentment, 
thrusts  a dagger  into  your  heart.  A voice  cries  out : 
“ This  enchanting  pleasure  is  for  my  rival  to  enjoy.”1 
Even  the  objects  which  strike  you,  without  producing 
this  effect,  instead  of  showing  you,  as  before,  a new  way 
of  winning  her  love,  cause  you  to  see  -a  new  advantage 
for  your  rival. 

You  meet  a pretty  woman  galloping  in  the  park2 ; 
your  rival  is  famous  for  his  fine  horses  which  can  do 
ten  miles  in  fifty  minutes. 

1 Here  you  see  one  of  love’s  follies ; for  this  perfection,  seen  by  your 
eyes,  is  not  one  for  him. 

3 Montaguola,  13th  April,  1819. 

123 


124 


ON  LOVE 


In  this  state,  rage  is  easily  fanned  into  life  ; you  no 
longer  remember  that  in  love  possession  is  nothing,  en- 
joyment everything.  You  exaggerate  the  happiness  of 
your  rival,  exaggerate  the  insolence  happiness  produces 
in  him,  and  you  come  at  last  to  the  limit  of  tortures, 
that  is  to  say  to  the  extremest  unhappiness,  poisoned  still 
further  by  a lingering  hope. 

The  only  remedy  is,  perhaps,  to  observe  your  rival’s 
happiness  at  close  quarters.  Often  you  will  see  him  fall 
peacefully  asleep  in  the  same  salon  as  the  woman,  for 
whom  your  heart  stops  beating,  at  the  mere  sight  of  a 
hat  like  hers  some  way  off  in  the  street. 

To  wake  him  up  you  have  only  to  show  your  jealousy. 
You  may  have,  perhaps,  the  pleasure  of  teaching  him  the 
price  of  the  woman  who  prefers  him  to  you,  and  he  will 
owe  to  you  the  love  he  will  learn  to  have  for  her. 

Face  to  face  with  a rival  there  is  no  mean — you  must 
either  banter  with  him  in  the  most  off-hand  way  you  can, 
or  frighten  him. 

Jealousy  being  the  greatest  of  all  evils,  endangering  one’s 
life  will  be  found  an  agreeable  diversion.  For  then  not 
all  our  fancies  are  embittered  and  blackened  (by  the 
mechanism  explained  above) — sometimes  it  is  possible  to 
imagine  that  one  kills  this  rival. 

According  to  this  principle,  that  it  is  never  right  to 
add  to  the  enemy’s  forces,  you  must  hide  your  love  from 
your  rival,  and,  under  some  pretext  of  vanity  as  far  as 
possible  removed  from  love,  say  to  him  very  quietly,  with 
all  possible  politeness,  and  in  the  calmest,  simplest  tone : 
“ Sir,  I cannot  think  why  the  public  sees  good  to  make 
little  So-and-so  mine  ; people  are  even  good  enough  to 
believe  that  I am  in  love  with  her.  As  for  you,  if  you 
want  her,  I would  hand  her  over  with  all  my  heart,  if 
unhappily  there  were  not  the  risk  of  placing  myself  into 
a ridiculous  position.  In  six  months,  take  her  as  much  as 
ever  you  like,  but  at  the  present  moment,  honour,  such 
as  people  attach  (why,  I don’t  know)  to  these  things, 


OF  JEALOUSY  125 

forces  me  to  tell  you,  to  my  great  regret,  that,  if  by 
chance  you  have  not  the  justice  to  wait  till  your  turn 
comes  round,  one  of  us  must  die.” 

Your  rival  is  very  likely  a man  without  much  passion, 
and  perhaps  a man  of  much  prudence,  who  once  con- 
vinced of  your  resolution,  will  make  haste  to  yield  you 
the  woman  in  question,  provided  he  can  find  any  decent 
pretext.  For  that  reason  you  must  give  a gay  tone  to 
your  challenge,  and  keep  the  whole  move  hidden  with 
the  greatest  secrecy. 

What  makes  the  pain  of  jealousy  so  sharp  is  that  vanity 
cannot  help  you  to  bear  it.  But,  according  to  the  plan 
I have  spoken  of,  your  vanity  has  something  to  feed  on  ; 
you  can  respect  yourself  for  bravery,  even  if  you  are 
reduced  to  despising  your  powers  of  pleasing. 

If  you  would  rather  not  carry  things  to  such  tragic 
lengths,  you  must  pack  up  and  go  miles  away,  and  keep  a 
chorus-girl,  whose  charms  people  will  think  have  arrested 
you  in  your  flight. 

Your  rival  has  only  to  be  an  ordinary  person  and  he 
will  think  you  are  consoled. 

Very  often  the  best  way  is  to  wait  without  flinching, 
while  he  wears  himself  out  in  the  eyes  of  the  loved  one 
through  his  own  stupidity.  For,  except  in  a serious 
passion  formed  little  by  little  and  in  early  youth,  a clever 
woman  does  not  love  an  undistinguished  man  for  long.1 
In  the  case  of  jealousy  after  intimate  intercourse,  there 
must  follow  also  apparent  indifference  or  real  incon- 
stancy. Plenty  of  women,  offended  with  a lover  whom 
they  still  love,  form  an  attachment  with  the  man,  of 
whom  he  has  shown  himself  jealous,  and  the  play  becomes 
a reality.2 

I have  gone  into  some  detail,  because  in  these  moments 
of  jealousy  one  often  loses  one’s  head.  Counsels,  made 
in  writing  a long  time  ago,  are  useful,  and,  the  essential 

1 La  Princesse  de  Larente.  Story  by  Scarron. 
a As  in  the  Curieux-impertinent,  story  by  Cervantes. 


126 


ON  LOVE 


thing  being  to  feign  calmness,  it  is  not  out  of  place  in  a 
philosophical  piece  of  writing,  to  adopt  that  tone. 

As  your  adversaries’  power  over  you  consists  in  taking 
away  from  you  or  making  you  hope  for  things,  whose 
whole  worth  consists  in  your  passion  for  them,  once 
manage  to  make  them  think  you  are  indifferent,  and  sud- 
denly they  are  without  a weapon. 

If  you  have  no  active  course  to  take,  but  can  distract 
yourself  in  looking  for  consolation,  you  will  find  some 
pleasure  in  reading  Othello  ; it  will  make  you  doubt  the 
most  conclusive  appearances.  You  will  feast  your  eyes 
on  these  words : — 

Trifles  light  as  air 

Seem  to  the  jealous  confirmations  strong 
As  proofs  from  Holy  Writ.  ( Othello , Act  III.) 

It  is  my  experience  that  the  sight  of  a fine  sea  is  con- 
soling. 

The  morning  which  had  arisen  calm  and  bright  gave  a pleasant 
effect  to  the  waste  mountain  view,  which  was  seen  from  the 
castle  on  looking  to  the  landward,  and  the  glorious  ocean  crisped 
with  a thousand  rippling  waves  of  silver  extended  on  the  other 
side  in  awful,  yet  complacent  majesty  to  the  verge  of  the  horizon. 
With  such  scenes  of  calm  sublimity  the  human  heart  sympathises 
even  in  its  most  disturbed  moods,  and  deeds  of  honour  and  virtue 
are  inspired  by  their  majestic  influence.  ( The  Bride  of  Lammer- 
moor , Chap.  VII.) 

I find  this  written  by  Salviati : — 

July  20 th,  1 8 1 8. — I often — and  I think  unreasonably — apply  to 
life  as  a whole  the  feelings  of  a man  of  ambition  or  a good  citizen, 
if  he  finds  himself  set  in  battle  to  guard  the  baggage  or  in  any 
other  post  without  danger  or  action.  I should  have  felt  regret 
at  forty  to  have  passed  the  age  of  loving  without  deep  passion. 
I should  have  had  that  bitter  and  humiliating  displeasure,  to 
have  found  out  too  late  that  I had  been  fool  enough  to  let  life 
pass,  without  living. 

Yesterday  I spent  three  hours  with  the  woman  I love  and  a 
rival,  whom  she  wants  to  make  me  think  she  favours.  Certainly, 


127 


OF  JEALOUSY 

there  were  moments  of  bitterness,  in  watching  her  lovely  eyes 
fixed  on  him,  and,  on  my  departure,  there  were  wild  transports 
from  utter  misery  to  hope.  But  what  changes,  what  sudden 
lights,  what  swift  thoughts,  and,  in  spite  of  the  apparent  happiness 
of  my  rival,  with  what  pride  and  what  delight  my  love  felt  itself 
superior  to  his  ! I went  away  saying  to  myself : The  most  vile  fear 
would  bleach  those  cheeks  at  the  least  of  the  sacrifices,  which  my 
love  would  make  for  the  fun  of  it,  nay,  with  delight — for  example, 
to  put  this  hand  into  a hat  and  draw  one  of  these  two  lots  : “ Be 
loved  by  her,”  the  other — “ Die  on  the  spot.”  And  this  feeling 
in  me  is  so  much  second  nature,  that  it  did  not  prevent  me  being 
amiable  and  talkative. 

If  someone  had  told  me  all  that  two  years  ago,  I should  have 
laughed. 

I find  in  the  Travels  to  the  Source  of  the  Missouri  River 
...  in  1804-6  of  Captains  Lewis  and  Clarke  (p.  215): — 

The  Ricaras  are  poor  and  generous  ; we  stayed  some  time  in 
three  of  their  villages.  Their  women  are  more  beautiful  than 
those  of  the  other  tribes  we  came  across  ; they  are  also  not  in 
the  least  inclined  to  let  their  lover  languish.  We  found  a new 
example  of  the  truth  that  you  only  have  to  travel  to  find  out 
that  there  is  variety  everywhere.  Among  the  Ricaras,  for  a woman 
to  grant  her  favours  without  the  consent  of  her  husband  or  her 
brother,  gives  great  offence.  But  then  the  brothers  and  the 
husband  are  only  too  delighted  to  have  the  opportunity  of  showing 
this  courtesy  to  their  friends. 

There  was  a negro  in  our  crew  ; he  created  a great  sensation 
among  a people  who  had  never  seen  a man  of  his  colour  before. 
He  was  soon  a favourite  with  the  fair  sex,  and  we  noticed  that  the 
husbands,  instead  of  being  jealous,  were  overjoyed  to  see  him 
come  to  visit  them.  The  funny  part  was  that  the  interior  of  the 
huts  was  so  narrow  that  everything  was  visible.1 

1 There  ought  to  be  instituted  at  Philadelphia  an  academy,  whose  sole 
occupation  would  be  the  collection  of  materials  for  the  study  of  man  in 
the  savage  state,  instead  of  waiting  till  these  curious  peoples  have  been 
exterminated. 

I know  quite  well  that  such  academies  exist — but  apparently  regulated 
in  a way  worthy  of  our  academies  in  Europe.  (Memoir  and  Discussion 
on  the  Zodiac  of  Denderah  at  the  Academie  des  Sciences  of  Paris,  1821.) 
I notice  that  the  academy  of,  I fancy,  Massachusetts  wisely  charges  a 


128 


ON  LOVE 


member  of  the  clergy  (Mr.  Jarvis)  to  make  a report  on  the  religion  of  the 
savage.  The  priest,  of  course,  refutes  energetically  an  impious  French- 
man, called  Volney.  According  to  the  priest,  the  savage  has  the  most 
exact  and  noble  ideas  of  the  Divinity,  etc.  If  he  lived  in  England,  such 
a report  would  bring  the  worthy  academician  a preferment  of  three  or 
four  hundred  pounds  and  the  protection  of  all  the  noble  lords  in  the 
county.  But  in  America ! For  the  rest,  the  absurdity  of  this  academy 
reminds  me  of  the  free  Americans,  who  set  the  greatest  store  on  seeing 
fine  coats- of-arms  painted  on  the  panels  of  their  carriages ; what  upsets 
them  is  that,  through  their  carriage-painter’s  want  of  instruction,  the 
blazoning  is  often  wrong. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 


OF  JEALOUSY — {continued) 

NOW  for  the  woman  suspected  of  inconstancy  ! 

She  leaves  you,  because  you  have  discouraged 
crystallisation,  but  it  is  possible  that  in  her  heart  you 
have  habit  to  plead  for  you. 

She  leaves  you,  because  she  is  too  sure  of  you.  You 
have  killed  fear,  and  there  is  nothing  left  to  give  birth 
to  the  little  doubts  of  happy  love.  Just  make  her  uneasy, 
and,  above  all,  beware  of  the  absurdity  of  protestations ! 

During  all  the  time  you  have  lived  in  touch  with  her, 
you  will  doubtless  have  discovered  what  woman,  in 
society  or  outside  it,  she  is  most  jealous  or  most  afraid 
of.  Pay  court  to  that  woman,  but  so  far  from  blazoning 
it  about,  do  your  best  to  keep  it  secret,  and  do  your  best 
sincerely  ; trust  to  the  eyes  of  anger  to  see  everything 
and  feel  everything.  The  strong  aversion  you  will  have 
felt  for  several  months  to  all  women  ought  to  make  this 
easy.1  Remember  that  in  the  position  you  are  in,  every- 
thing is  spoiled  by  a show  of  passion : avoid  seeing 
much  of  the  woman  you  love,  and  drink  champagne 
with  the  wits. 

In  order  to  judge  of  your  mistress’  love,  remember : — 
I.  The  more  physical  pleasure  counts  for  in  the  basis 
of  her  love  and  in  what  formerly  determined  her  to 
yield,  the  more  prone  it  is  to  inconstancy,  and,  still 
more,  to  infidelity.  This  applies  especially  to  love  in 

1 You  compare  the  branch  adorned  with  diamonds  to  the  branch  left 
bare,  and  contrast  adds  sting  to  your  memories. 

129 


K 


130  ON  LOVE 

which  crystallisation  has  been  favoured  by  the  fire  of 
sweet  seventeen. 

2.  Two  people  in  love  are  hardly  ever  equally  in 
love:1  passion-love  has  its  phases,  during  which  now  one, 
now  the  other  is  more  impassioned.  Often,  too,  it  is 
merely  gallantry  or  vain  love  which  responds  to  passion- 
love,  and  it  is  generally  the  woman  who  is  carried  away 
by  passion.  But  whatever  the  love  may  be  that  either  of 
them  feels,  directly  one  of  them  is  jealous,  he  insists  on 
the  other  fulfilling  all  the  conditions  of  passion-love  ; 
vanity  pretends  to  all  the  claims  of  a heart  that  feels. 

Furthermore,  nothing  wearies  gallant-love  like  passion- 
love  from  the  other  side. 

Often  a clever  man,  paying  court  to  a woman,  just  sets 
her  thinking  of  love  in  a sentimental  frame  of  mind. 
She  receives  this  clever  man  kindly  for  giving  her  this 
pleasure — he  conceives  hopes. 

But  one  fine  day  that  woman  meets  the  man,  who 
makes  her  feel  what  the  other  has  described. 

I do  not  know  what  are  the  effects  of  a man’s  jealousy 
on  the  heart  of  the  woman  he  loves.  Displayed  by  an 
admirer  who  wearies  her,  jealousy  must  inspire  a supreme 
disgust,  and  it  may  even  turn  to  hatred,  if  the  man  he  is 
jealous  of  is  nicer  than  the  jealous  one  ; for  we  want 
jealousy,  said  Madame  de  Coulanges,  only  from  those  of 
whom  we  could  be  jealous. 

If  the  jealous  one  is  liked,  but  has  no  real  claims,  his 
jealousy  may  offend  that  feminine  pride  so  hard  to  keep 
in  humour  or  even  to  recognise.  Jealousy  may  please 
women  of  pride,  as  a new  way  of  showing  them  their 
power. 

Jealousy  can  please  as  a new  way  of  giving  proof  of 
love.  It  can  also  offend  the  modesty  of  a woman  who  is 
over-refined. 

1 e.g.  the  love  of  Alfieri  for  that  great  English  lady  (Lady  Ligonier) 
who  also  philandered  with  her  footman  and  prettily  signed  herself 
Penelope.  {Vita,  Epoca  III,  Chaps.  X and  XI.) 


OF  JEALOUSY  13 1 

It  can  please  as  a sign  of  the  lover’s  hot  blood — -jerrum 
est  quod  amant.  But  note  that  it  is  hot  blood  they  love, 
and  not  courage  a la  Turenne,  which  is  quite  com- 
patible with  a cold  heart. 

One  of  the  consequences  of  crystallisation  is  that  a 
woman  can  never  say  “ yes  ” to  the  lover,  to  whom  she 
has  been  unfaithful,  if  she  ever  means  to  make  anything  of 
him. 

Such  is  the  pleasure  of  continuing  to  enjoy  the  perfect 
image  we  have  formed  of  the  object  of  our  attachment, 
that  until  that  fatal  “ yes  ” — 

L’on  va  chercher  bien  loin,  plutot  que  de  mourir, 

Quelque  pretexte  ami  pour  vivre  et  pour  souffrir. 

{Andre  Chenier.1) 

Everyone  in  France  knows  the  anecdote  of  Made- 
moiselle de  Sommery,  who,  caught  in  flagrant  delict  by 
her  lover,  flatly  denied  the  fact.  On  his  protesting,  she 
replied:  “Very  well,  I see  you  don’t  love  me  any 
more  : you  believe  what  you  see  before  what  I tell  you.” 

To  make  it  up  with  an  idol  of  a mistress,  who  has 
been  unfaithful,  is  to  set  yourself  to  undo  with  the  point 
of  a dagger  a crystallisation  incessantly  forming  afresh. 
Love  has  got  to  die,  and  your  heart  will  feel  the  cruel 
pang  of  every  stage  in  its  agony. 

It  is  one  of  the  saddest  dispositions  of  this  passion  and 
of  life.  You  must  be  strong  enough  to  make  it  up  only 
as  friends. 

1 [“  Sooner  than  die,  we  will  go  very  far  in  search  of  some  friendly 
pretext  to  live  and  suffer.” — Tr.] 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 


ROXANA 

\S  for  women’s  jealousy — they  are  suspicious,  they 
have  infinitely  more  at  stake  than  we,  they  have 
made  a greater  sacrifice  to  love,  have  far  fewer  means 
of  distraction  and,  above  all,  far  fewer  means  of  keeping 
a check  on  their  lover’s  actions.  A woman  feels  herself 
degraded  by  jealousy  ; she  thinks  her  lover  is  laughing 
at  her,  or,  still  worse,  making  fun  of  her  tenderest  trans- 
ports. Cruelty  must  tempt  her — and  yet,  legally,  she  can- 
not kill  her  rival ! 

For  women,  jealousy  must  be  a still  more  abominable 
evil  than  it  is  for  men.  It  is  the  last  degree  of  impotent 
rage  and  self-contempt1  which  a heart  can  bear  without 
breaking. 

I know  no  other  remedy  for  so  cruel  an  evil,  than  the 
death  of  the  one  who  is  the  cause  of  it  or  of  the  one  who 
suffers.  An  example  of  French  jealousy  is  the  story  of 
Madame  de  la  Pommeraie  in  Jacques  le  Fataliste  (19). 

La  Rochefoucauld  says : “ We  are  ashamed  of  owning 
we  are  jealous,  but  pride  ourselves  on  having  been  and 
of  being  capable  of  jealousy.”2  Poor  woman  dares  not 
own  even  to  having  suffered  this  torture,  so  much  ridicule 
does  it  bring  upon  her.  So  painful  a wound  can  never 
quite  heal  up. 

If  cold  reason  could  be  unfolded  before  the  fire  of 
imagination  with  the  merest  shade  of  success,  I would  say 

1 This  contempt  is  one  of  the  great  causes  of  suicide  : people  kill 
themselves  to  give  their  sense  of  honour  satisfaction. 

2 Pensee  495.  The  reader  will  have  recognised,  without  my  marking 
it  each  time,  several  other  thoughts  of  celebrated  writers.  It  is  history 
which  I am  attempting  to  write,  and  such  thoughts  are  the  facts. 

132 


ROXANA 


133 


to  those  wretched  women,  who  are  unhappy  from 
jealousy:  “There  is  a great  difference  between  infidelity 
in  man  and  in  you.  In  you,  the  importance  of  the  act  is 
partly  direct,  partly  symbolic.  But,  as  an  effect  of  the 
education  of  our  military  schools,  it  is  in  man  the  symbol 
of  nothing  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  in  women,  through 
the  effect  of  modesty,  it  is  the  most  decisive  of  all  the 
symbols  of  devotion.  Bad  habit  makes  it  almost  a 
necessity  to  men.  During  all  our  early  years,  the 
example  set  by  the  so-called  £ bloods  ’ makes  us  set  all 
our  pride  on  the  number  of  successes  of  this  kind — as 
the  one  and  only  proof  of  our  worth.  For  you,  your 
education  acts  in  exactly  the  opposite  direction.” 

As  for  the  value  of  an  action  as  symbol — in  a moment 
of  anger  I upset  a table  on  to  the  foot  of  my  neighbour ; 
that  gives  him  the  devil  of  a pain,  but  can  quite  easily  be 
fixed  up — or  again,  I make  as  if  to  give  him  a slap  in  the 
face.  . . . 

The  difference  between  infidelity  in  the  two  sexes  is 
so  real,  that  a woman  of  passion  may  pardon  it,  while 
for  a man  that  is  impossible. 

Here  we  have  a decisive  ordeal  to  show  the  difference 
between  passion-love  and  love  from  pique : infidelity 
in  women  all  but  kills  the  former  and  doubles  the  force 
of  the  latter. 

Haughty  women  disguise  their  jealousy  from  pride. 
They  will  spend  long  and  dreary  evenings  in  silence  with 
the  man  whom  they  adore,  and  whom  they  tremble  to  lose, 
making  themselves  consciously  disagreeable  in  his  eyes. 
This  must  be  one  of  the  greatest  possible  tortures,  and  is 
certainly  one  of  the  most  fruitful  sources  of  unhappiness 
in  love.  In  order  to  cure  these  women,  who  merit  so 
well  all  our  respect,  it  needs  on  the  man’s  side  a strong 
and  out-of-the-way  line  of  action — but,  mind,  he 
must  not  seem  to  notice  what  is  going  on — for  example, 
a long  journey  with  them  undertaken  at  a twenty-four 
hours’  notice. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 


OF  SELF-ESTEEM  PIQUED1 

PIQUE  is  a manifestation  of  vanity  ; I do  not  want 
my  antagonist  to  go  higher  than  myself  and  I take 
that  antagonist  himself  as  judge  of  my  worth.  I want  to 
produce  an  effect  on  his  heart.  It  is  this  that  carries  us 
so  far  beyond  all  reasonable  limits. 

Sometimes,  to  justify  our  own  extravagance,  we  go 
so  far  as  to  tell  ourselves  that  this  rival  has  a mind  to 
dupe  us. 

Pique,  being  an  infirmity  of  honour,  is  far  more  com- 
mon in  monarchies ; it  must,  surely,  be  exceedingly  rare  in 
countries,  where  the  habit  is  rampant  of  valuing  things 
according  to  their  utility — for  example,  in  the  United 
States. 

Every  man,  and  a Frenchman  sooner  than  any  other, 
loathes  being  taken  for  a dupe  ; and  yet  the  lightness  of 
the  French  character  under  the  old  monarchic  regime 2 
prevented  pique  from  working  great  havoc  beyond  the 
domains  of  gallantry  and  gallant-love.  Pique  has  pro- 
duced serious  tragedies  only  in  monarchies,  where, 
through  the  climate,  the  shade  of  character  is  darker 
(Portugal,  Piedmont). 

The  provincial  in  France  forms  a ludicrous  idea  of 
what  is  considered  a gentleman  in  good  society — and  then 
he  takes  cover  behind  his  model,  and  waits  there  2II  his 

1 In  Italian  puntiglio  (20). 

2 Three-quarters  of  the  great  French  noblemen  about  1778  would 
have  been  on  the  high  road  to  prison  in  a country  where  the  laws  were 
executed  without  respect  of  persons. 

134 


OF  SELF-ESTEEM  PIQUED  135 

life  to  see  that  no  one  trespasses.  And  so  good-bye 
naturalness ! He  is  always  in  a state  of  pique,  a mania 
which  gives  a laughable  character  even  to  his  love  affairs. 
This  enviousness  is  what  makes  it  most  unbearable  to 
live  in  small  towns,  and  one  should  remind  oneself  of 
this,  when  one  admires  the  picturesque  situation  of  any 
of  them.  The  most  generous  and  noble  emotions  are 
there  paralysed  by  contact  with  all  that  is  most  low  in 
the  products  of  civilisation.  In  order  to  put  the  finishing 
touch  to  their  awfulness,  these  bourgeois  talk  of  nothing 
but  the  corruption  of  great  cities.1 

Pique  cannot  exist  in  passion-love  ; it  is  feminine 
pride.  “ If  I let  my  lover  treat  me  badly,  he  will  despise 
me  and  no  longer  be  able  to  love  me.”  It  may  also 
be  jealousy  in  all  its  fury. 

Jealousy  desires  the  death  of  the  object  it  fears.  The 
man  in  a state  of  pique  is  miles  away  from  that — he 
wants  his  enemy  to  live,  and,  above  all,  be  witness  of  his 
triumph. 

He  would  be  sorry  to  see  his  rival  renounce  the  struggle, 
for  the  fellow  may  have  the  insolence  to  say  in  the  depth 
of  his  heart:  “ If  I had  persevered  in  my  original  object, 
I should  have  outdone  him.” 

With  pique,  there  is  no  interest  in  the  apparent  pur- 
pose— the  point  of  everything  is  victory.  This  is  well 
brought  out  in  the  love  affairs  of  chorus-girls ; take  away 
the  rival,  and  the  boasted  passion,  which  threatened 
suicide  from  the  fifth-floor  window,  instantly  subsides. 

Love  from  pique,  contrary  to  passion-love,  passes  in 
a moment ; it  is  enough  for  the  antagonist  by  an  irre- 
vocable step  to  own  that  he  renounces  the  struggle.  I 
hesitate,  however,  to  advance  this  maxim,  having  only 
one  example,  and  that  leaves  doubts  in  my  mind.  Here 
are  the  facts — the  reader  will  judge.  Dona  Diana  is  a 

1 As  the  one  keeps  strict  watch  on  the  other  in  all  that  touches  love, 
there  is  less  love  and  more  immorality  in  provincial  towns.  Italy  is 
luckier. 


ON  LOVE 


136 

young  person  of  twenty-three,  daughter  of  one  of  the 
richest  and  proudest  citizens  of  Seville.  She  is  beautiful, 
without  any  doubt,  but  of  a peculiar  type  of  beauty,  and  is 
credited  with  ever  so  much  wit  and  still  more  pride.  She 
was  passionately  in  love,  to  all  appearances  at  least,  with  a 
young  officer,  with  whom  her  family  would  have  nothing 
to  do.  The  officer  left  for  America  with  Morillo,  and 
they  corresponded  continuously.  One  day  in  the  midst 
of  a lot  of  people,  assembled  round  the  mother  of  Dona 
Diana,  a fool  announced  the  death  of  the  charming 
officer.  All  eyes  are  turned  upon  Dona  Diana ; Dona 
Diana  says  nothing  but  these  words:  “What  a pity — so 
young.” 

Just  that  day  we  had  been  reading  a play  of  old 
Massinger,  which  ends  tragically,  but  in  which  the 
heroine  takes  the  death  of  her  lover  with  this  apparent 
tranquillity.  I saw  the  mother  shudder  in  spite  of  her 
pride  and  dislike  ; the  father  went  out  of  the  room  to 
hide  his  joy.  In  the  midst  of  this  scene  and  the  dismay 
of  all  present,  who  were  making  eyes  at  the  fool  who 
had  told  the  story,  Dona  Diana,  the  only  one  at  ease, 
proceeded  with  the  conversation,  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. Her  mother,  in  apprehension,  set  her  maid 
to  watch  her,  but  nothing  seemed  to  be  altered  in  her 
behaviour. 

Two  years  later,  a very  fine  young  man  paid  his  atten- 
tions to  her.  This  time  again,  and,  still  for  the  same 
reason,  Dona  Diana’s  parents  violently  opposed  the 
marriage,  because  the  aspirant  was  not  of  noble  birth. 
She  herself  declared  it  should  take  place.  A state  of 
pique  ensues  between  the  daughter’s  sense  of  honour 
and  the  father’s.  The  young  man  is  forbidden  the  house. 
Dona  Diana  is  no  longer  taken  to  the  country  and  hardly 
ever  to  church.  With  scrupulous  care,  every  means  of 
meeting  her  lover  is  taken  from  her.  He  disguises 
himself  and  sees  her  secretly  at  long  intervals.  She 
becomes  more  and  more  resolute,  and  refuses  the  most 


OF  SELF-ESTEEM  PIQUED  137 

brilliant  matches,  even  a title  and  a great  establishment 
at  the  Court  of  Ferdinand  VII.  The  whole  town  is 
talking  of  the  misfortunes  of  the  two  lovers  and  of  their 
heroic  constancy.  At  last  the  majority  of  Dona  Diana 
draws  near.  She  gives  her  father  to  understand  that  she 
means  to  make  use  of  her  right  of  disposing  of  her 
own  hand.  The  family,  driven  back  on  its  last  resources, 
opens  negotiations  for  the  marriage.  When  it  is  half 
concluded,  at  an  official  meeting  of  the  two  families,  the 
young  man,  after  six  years’  constancy, refuses  Dona  Diana.1 

A quarter  of  an  hour  later  no  trace  of  anything — she 
was  consoled.  Did  she  love  from  pique  ? Or  are  we 
face  to  face  with  a great  soul,  that  disclaims  to  parade 
its  sorrow  before  the  eyes  of  the  world  ? 

In  passion-love  satisfaction,  if  I can  call  it  such,  is  often 
only  to  be  won  by  piquing  the  loved  one’s  self-esteem. 
Then,  in  appearance,  the  lover  realises  all  that  can  be 
desired ; complaints  would  be  ridiculous  and  seem  sense- 
less. He  cannot  speak  of  his  misfortune,  and  yet  how  con- 
stantly he  knows  and  feels  its  prick ! Its  traces  are  inwoven, 
so  to  speak,  with  circumstances,  the  most  flattering  and 
the  most  fit  to  awaken  illusions  of  enchantment.  This 
misfortune  rears  its  monstrous  head  at  the  tenderest 
moments,  as  if  to  taunt  the  lover  and  make  him  feel,  at  one 
and  the  same  instant,  all  the  delight  of  being  loved  by 
the  charming  and  unfeeling  creature  in  his  arms,  and 
the  impossibility  of  this  delight  being  his.  Perhaps  after 
jealousy,  this  is  the  cruellest  unhappiness. 

The  story  is  still  fresh  in  a certain  large  town2  of  a 
man  of  soft  and  gentle  nature,  who  was  carried  away  by 
a rage  of  this  kind  to  spill  the  blood  of  his  mistress,  who 
only  loved  him  from  pique  agains  t her  sister.  He  arranged 

1 Every  year  there  is  more  than  one  example  of  women  abandoned 
just  as  vilely,  and  so  I can  pardon  suspiciousness  in  respectable  women. 
Mirabeau,  Lcttres  d Sophie  (21).  Opinion  is  powerless  in  despotic  coun- 
tries : there  is  nothing  solid  but  the  friendship  of  the  pasha. 

1 Leghorn,  1819. 


ON  LOVE 


138 

with  her,  one  evening,  to  come  for  a row  on  the  sea  by 
themselves,  in  a pretty  little  boat  he  had  devised  himself. 
Once  well  out  to  sea,  he  touches  a spring,  the  boat  divides 
and  disappears  for  ever. 

I have  seen  a man  of  sixty  set  out  to  keep  an  actress, 
the  most  capricious,  irresponsible,  delightful  and  wonder- 
ful on  the  London  stage — Miss  Cornel. 

“ And  you  expect  that  she’ll  be  faithful  ? ” people 
asked  him. 

“ Not  in  the  least.  But  she’ll  be  in  love  with  me — 
perhaps  madly  in  love.” 

And  for  a whole  year  she  did  love  him — often  to 
distraction.  For  three  whole  months  together  she 
never  even  gave  him  subject  for  complaint.  He  had 
put  a state  of  pique,  disgraceful  in  many  ways,  between 
his  mistress  and  his  daughter. 

Pique  wins  the  day  in  gallant-love,  being  its  very  life 
and  blood.  It  is  the  ordeal  best  fitted  to  differentiate 
between  gallant-love  and  passion-love.  There  is  an  old 
maxim  of  war,  given  to  young  fellows  new  to  their  regi- 
ment, that  if  you  are  billeted  on  a house,  where  there 
are  two  sisters,  and  you  want  to  have  one,  you  must 
pay  your  attentions  to  the  other.  To  win  the  majority 
of  Spanish  women,  who  are  still  young  and  ready  for 
love  affairs,  it  is  enough  to  give  out,  seriously  and  modestly, 
that  you  have  no  feelings  whatever  for  the  lady  of  the 
house.  I have  this  useful  maxim  from  dear  General 
Lassale.  This  is  the  most  dangerous  way  of  attacking 
passion-love. 

Piqued  self-esteem  is  the  bond  which  ties  the  happiest 
marriages,  after  those  formed  by  love.  Many  husbands 
make  sure  of  their  wives’  love  for  many  years,  by  taking 
up  with  some  little  woman  a couple  of  months  after  their 
marriage.1  In  this  way  the  habit  is  engendered  of  think- 
ing only  of  one  man,  and  family  ties  succeed  in  making 
the  habit  invincible. 

1 See  The  Confessions  of  an  Odd-tempered.  Man.  Story  by  Mrs.  Opie. 


OF  SELF-ESTEEM  PIQUED 


T39 


If  in  the  past  century  at  the  Court  of  Louis  XV  a 
great  lady  (Madame  de  Choiseul)  was  seen  to  worship 
her  husband,1  the  reason  is  that  he  seemed  to  take  a 
keen  interest  in  her  sister,  the  Duchesse  de  Grammont. 

The  most  neglected  mistress,  once  she  makes  us  see 
that  she  prefers  another  man,  robs  us  of  our  peace  and 
afflicts  our  heart  with  all  the  semblance  of  passion. 

The  courage  of  an  Italian  is  an  access  of  rage  ; the 
courage  of  a German  a moment  of  intoxication  ; that  of 
a Spaniard  an  outburst  of  pride.  If  there  were  a nation, 
in  which  courage  were  generally  a matter  of  piqued  self- 
esteem between  the  soldiers  of  each  company  and  the 
regiments  of  each  division,  in  the  case  of  a rout  there 
would  be  no  support,  and  consequently  there  would  be 
no  means  of  rallying  the  armies  of  such  a nation.  To 
foresee  the  danger  and  try  to  remedy  it,  would  be  the 
greatest  of  all  absurdities  with  such  conceited  runaways. 

“ It  is  enough  to  have  opened  any  single  description  of  a voyage 
among  the  savages  of  North  America,”  says  one  of  the  most 
delightful  philosophers  of  France,2  “ to  know  that  the  ordinary 
fate  of  prisoners  of  war  is  not  only  to  be  burnt  alive  and  eaten, 
but  first  to  be  bound  to  a stake  near  a flaming  bonfire  and  to  be 
tortured  there  for  several  hours,  by  all  the  most  ferocious  and 
refined  devices  that  fury  can  imagine.  Read  what  travellers, 
who  have  witnessed  these  fearful  scenes,  tell  of  the  cannibal  joy 
of  the  assistants,  above  all,  of  the  fury  of  the  women  and  children, 
and  of  their  gruesome  delight  in  this  competition  of  cruelty. 
See  also  what  they  add  about  the  heroic  firmness  and  immutable 
self-possession  of  the  prisoner,  who  not  only  gives  no  sign  of  pain, 
but  taunts  and  defies  his  torturers,  by  all  that  pride  can  make 
most  haughty,  irony  most  bitter,  and  sarcasm  most  insulting — 
singing  his  own  glorious  deeds,  going  through  the  number  of  the 
relations  and  friends  of  the  onlookers  whom  he  has  killed,  detail- 
ing the  sufferings  he  has  inflicted  on  them,  and  accusing  all  that 
stand  around  him  of  cowardice,  timidity  and  ignorance  of  the 
methods  of  torture  ; until  falling  limb  from  limb,  devoured  alive 

1 Letters  of  Madame  du  Defiant,  Memoirs  of  Lauzun. 

* Volney,  Tableau  des  Etats-Unis  d'Amcrique,  pp.  491-96. 


140 


ON  LOVE 


under  his  own  eyes  by  enemies  drunk  with  fury,  he  gasps  out  his 
last  whisper  and  his  last  insult  together  with  his  life’s  breath.1  All 
this  would  be  beyond  belief  in  civilised  nations,  will  look  like 
fable  to  the  most  fearless  captains  of  our  grenadiers,  and  will 
one  day  be  brought  into  doubt  by  posterity.” 

This  physiological  phenomenon  is  closely  connected 
with  a particular  moral  state  in  the  prisoner,  which  con- 
stitutes, between  him  on  the  one  side  and  all  his  torturers 
on  the  other,  a combat  of  self-esteem — of  vanity  against 
vanity,  as  to  who  can  hold  out  longer. 

Our  brave  military  doctors  have  often  observed  that 
wounded  soldiers,  who,  in  a calm  state  of  mind  and  senses, 
would  have  shrieked  out,  during  certain  operations,  dis- 
play, on  the  contrary,  only  calmness  and  heroism,  if  they 
are  prepared  for  it  in  a certain  manner.  It  is  a matter 
of  piquing  their  sense  of  honour  ; you  have  to  pretend, 
first  in  a roundabout  way,  and  then  with  irritating 
persistence,  that  it  is  beyond  their  present  power  to  bear 
the  operation  without  shrieking. 

1 Anyone  accustomed  to  a spectacle  like  this,  who  feels  the  risk  of 
being  the  hero  of  such  another,  may  possibly  be  interested  only  in  its 
heroic  aspect,  and,  in  that  case,  the  spectacle  must  be  the  foremost  and 
most  intimate  of  the  non-active  pleasures. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 


OF  QUARRELSOME  LOVE 

IT  is  of  two  kinds : 

I.  In  which  the  originator  of  the  quarrel  loves. 

2.  In  which  he  does  not  love. 

If  one  of  the  lovers  is  too  superior  in  advantages 
which  both  value,  the  love  of  the  other  must  die  ; for 
sooner  or  later  comes  the  fear  of  contempt,  to  cut  short 
crystallisation. 

Nothing  is  so  odious  to  the  mediocre  as  mental  supe- 
riority. There  lies  the  source  of  hatred  in  the  world  of 
to-day,  and  if  we  do  not  have  to  thank  this  principle  for 
desperate  enmities,  it  is  solely  due  to  the  fact  that  the 
people  it  comes  between  are  not  forced  to  live  together. 
What  then  of  love  ? For  here,  everything  being  natural, 
especially  on  the  part  of  the  superior  being,  superiority 
is  not  masked  by  any  social  precaution. 

For  the  passion  to  be  able  to  survive,  the  inferior 
must  ill-treat  the  other  party  ; otherwise  the  latter  could 
not  shut  a window,  without  the  other  taking  offence. 

As  for  the  superior  party,  he  deludes  himself : the 
love  he  feels  is  beyond  the  reach  of  danger,  and,  besides, 
almost  all  the  weaknesses  in  that  which  we  love,  make  it 
only  the  dearer  to  us. 

In  point  of  duration,  directly  after  passion-love  re- 
ciprocated between  people  on  the  same  level,  one  must 
put  quarrelsome  love,  in  which  the  quarreller  does  not 
love.  Examples  of  this  are  to  be  found  in  the  anecdotes, 
relative  to  the  Duchesse  de  Berri  (Memoirs  of  Duclos). 
Partaking,  as  it  does,  of  the  nature  of  set  habits,  which 


142 


ON  LOVE 


are  rooted  in  the  prosaic  and  egoistic  side  of  life  and 
follow  man  inseparably  to  the  grave,  this  love  can  last 
longer  than  passion-love  itself.  But  it  is  no  longer  love, 
it  is  a habit  engendered  by  love,  which  has  nothing  of 
that  passion  but  memories  and  physical  pleasure.  This 
habit  necessarily  presupposes  a less  noble  kind  of  being. 
Each  day  a little  scene  is  got  ready — “Will  he  make  a 
fuss  ? ” — which  occupies  the  imagination,  just  as,  in 
passion-love,  every  day  a new  proof  of  affection  had  to 
be  found.  See  the  anecdotes  about  Madame  d’Houdetot 
and  Saint-Lambert.1 2 * * 

It  is  possible  that  pride  refuses  to  get  used  to  this 
kind  of  occupation  ; in  which  case,  after  some  stormy 
months,  pride  kills  love.  But  we  see  the  nobler  passion 
make  a long  resistance  before  giving  in.  The  little 
quarrels  of  happy  love  foster  a long  time  the  illusion  of 
a heart  that  still  loves  and  sees  itself  badly  treated. 
Some  tender  reconciliations  may  make  the  transition 
more  bearable.  A woman  excuses  the  man  she  has  deeply 
loved,  on  the  score  of  a secret  sorrow  or  a blow  to  his 
prospects.  At  last  she  grows  used  to  being  scolded. 
Where,  really,  outside  passion-love,  outside  gambling  or 
the  possession  of  power,8  can  you  find  any  other  unfailing 
entertainment  to  be  compared  with  it  for  liveliness  ? 
If  the  scolder  happens  to  die,  the  victim  who  survives 
proves  inconsolable.  This  is  the  principle  which  forms 
the  bond  of  many  middle-class  marriages ; the  scolded 
can  listen  to  his  own  voice  all  day  long  talking  of  his 
favourite  subject. 

There  is  a false  kind  of  quarrelsome  love.  I took  from 
the  letters  of  a woman  of  extraordinary  brilliance  this  in 
Chapter  XXXIII 

“ Always  a little  doubt  to  allay — that  is  what  whets  our 

1 Memoirs  of  Madame  d’Epinay,  I think,  or  of  Marmontel. 

2 Whatever  certain  hypocritical  ministers  may  say,  power  is  the  fore- 

most of  pleasures.  I believe  love  alone  can  beat  it,  and  love  is  a lucky 

illness,  which  cannot  be  got  like  a ministry. 


OF  QUARRELSOME  LOVE  143 

appetite  in  passion-love  every  moment.  ...  As  it  is 
never  separated  from  fear,  so  its  pleasures  can  never  tire.” 

With  rough  and  ill-mannered  people,  or  those  with  a 
very  violent  nature,  this  little  doubt  to  calm,  this  faint 
misgiving  shows  itself  in  the  form  of  a quarrel. 

If  the  loved  one  has  not  the  extreme  susceptibility, 
which  comes  of  a careful  education,  she  may  find  that 
love  of  this  kind  has  more  life  in  it,  and  consequently  is 
more  enjoyable.  Even  with  all  the  refinement  in  the 
world,  it  is  hard  not  to  love  “ your  savage  ” all  the  more, 
if  you  see  him  the  first  to  suffer  for  his  transports.  What 
Lord  Mortimer  thinks  back  on,  perhaps,  with  most  regret 
for  his  lost  mistress,  are  the  candlesticks  she  threw  at  his 
head.  And,  really,  if  pride  forgives  and  permits  such 
sensations,  it  must  also  be  allowed  that  they  do  wage 
implacable  warfare  upon  boredom — that  arch-enemy  of 
the  happy  ! 

Saint-Simon,  the  one  historian  France  has  had, 
says : — 

After  several  passing  fancies,  the  Duchesse  de  Berri  had  fallen 
in  love,  in  real  earnest,  with  Riom,  cadet  of  the  house  of  d’Aydie, 
son  of  a sister  of  Madame  de  Biron.  He  had  neither  looks  nor 
sense  : a stout,  short  youth,  with  a puffy  white  face,  who  with 
all  his  spots  looked  like  one  big  abscess — though,  true,  he  had  fine 
teeth.  He  had  no  idea  of  having  inspired  a passion,  which  in  less 
than  no  time  went  beyond  all  limits  and  lasted  ever  after,  without, 
indeed,  preventing  passing  fancies  and  cross-attachments.  He 
had  little  property,  and  many  brothers  and  sisters  who  had  no 
more.  M.  and  Madame  de  Pons,  lady-in-waiting  to  the  Duchesse 
de  Berri,  were  related  to  them  and  of  the  same  province,  and  they 
sent  for  the  young  man,  who  was  a lieutenant  in  the  dragoons, 
to  see  what  could  be  made  of  him.  He  had  scarcely  arrived  before 
the  Duchess’s  weakness  for  him  became  public  and  Riom  was  master 
of  the  Luxembourg. 

M.  de  Lauzun,  whose  grand-nephew  he  was,  laughed  in  his 
sleeve  ; he  was  delighted  to  see  in  Riom  a reincarnation  at  the 
Luxembourg  of  himself  from  the  time  of  Mademoiselle.  He 
gave  Riom  instructions  which  were  listened  to  by  him,  as  befitted 


ON  LOVE 


144 

a mild  and  naturally  polite  and  respectful  young  fellow,  well 
behaved  and  straightforward.  But  before  long  Riom  began  to  feel 
the  power  of  his  own  charms,  which  could  only  captivate  the  incom- 
prehensible humour  of  this  princess.  Without  abusing  his  power 
with  others,  he  made  himself  liked  by  everyone,  but  he  treated 
his  duchess  as  M.  de  Lauzun  had  treated  Mademoiselle.  He  was 
soon  dressed  in  the  richest  laces,  the  richest  suits,  furnished  with 
money,  buckles,  jewels.  He  made  himself  an  object  of  admiration 
and  took  a delight  in  making  the  princess  jealous  or  pretending  to 
be  jealous  himself — bringing  her  often  to  tears.  Little  by  little 
he  reduced  her  to  the  state  of  doing  nothing  without  his  permis- 
sion, not  even  in  matters  of  indifference.  At  one  time,  ready  to  go 
out  to  the  Opera,  he  made  her  stay  at  home  ; at  another  he  made 
her  go  against  her  will.  He  forced  her  to  do  favours  to  ladies  she 
disliked,  or  of  whom  she  was  jealous,  and  to  injure  people  she 
liked,  or  of  whom  he  pretended  to  be  jealous.  Even  as  far  as 
dress,  she  was  not  allowed  the  smallest  liberty.  He  used  to  amuse 
himself  by  making  her  have  her  hair  done  all  over  again,  or  have 
her  dress  changed  when  she  was  completely  ready — and  this  hap- 
pened so  often  and  so  publicly,  that  he  had  accustomed  her  to 
take  in  the  evening  his  orders  for  dress  and  occupation  for  the 
next  day.  The  next  day  he  would  change  it  all  and  make  the 
princess  cry  still  more.  At  last  she  came  to  sending  him  messages 
by  trusted  valets — for  he  lived  in  the  Luxembourg  almost  from 
the  day  of  his  arrival — and  the  messages  had  often  to  be  repeated 
during  her  toilet  for  her  to  know  what  ribbons  to  wear  and  about 
her  frock  and  other  details  of  dress ; and  nearly  always  he  made 
her  wear  what  she  disliked.  If  sometimes  she  gave  herself  some 
liberty  in  the  smallest  matter  without  leave,  he  treated  her  like  a 
servant,  and  often  her  tears  lasted  several  days. 

This  haughty  princess,  who  was  so  fond  of  display  and  indulging 
her  boundless  pride,  could  bring  herself  so  low  as  to  partake  of 
obscene  parties  with  him  and  unmentionable  people — she  with 
whom  no  one  could  dine  unless  he  were  prince  of  the  blood.  The 
Jesuit  Riglet,  whom  she  as  a child  had  known,  and  wrho  had 
brought  her  up,  was  admitted  to  these  private  meals,  without 
feeling  ashamed  himself  or  the  Duchess  being  embarrassed. 
Madame  de  Mouchy  was  admitted  into  the  secret  of  all  these 
strange  events ; she  and  Riom  summoned  the  company  and  chose 
the  days.  This  lady  was  the  peacemaker  between  the  tw7o  lovers, 


OF  QUARRELSOME  LOVE  145 

and  the  whole  of  this  existence  was  a matter  of  general  knowledge 
at  the  Luxembourg.  Riom  was  there  looked  to,  as  the  centre 
of  everything,  while  on  his  side  he  was  careful  to  live  on  good 
terms  with  all,  honouring  them  with  a show  of  respect,  which  he 
refused  in  public  only  to  his  princess.  Before  everybody  he  would 
give  her  curt  answers,  which  would  make  the  whole  company 
lower  their  eyes  and  bring  blushes  to  the  cheeks  of  the  Duchess, 
who  put  no  constraint  upon  her  idolatry  of  him.” 

Riom  was  a sovereign  remedy,  for  the  Duchess,  against 
the  monotony  of  life. 

A famous  woman  said  once  off-hand  to  General  Bona- 
parte, then  a young  hero  covered  with  glory  and  with  no 
crimes  against  liberty  on  his  conscience : “ General,  a 
woman  could  only  be  a wife  or  a sister  to  you.”  The 
hero  did  not  understand  the  compliment,  which  the 
world  has  made  up  for  with  some  pretty  slanders. 

The  women,  of  whom  we  are  speaking,  like  to  be  de- 
spised by  their  lover,  whom  they  only  love  in  his  cruelty. 


z. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 


(Part  II) 

REMEDIES  AGAINST  LOVE 

THE  leap  of  Leucas  was  a fine  image  of  antiquity.  It  is 
true,  the  remedy  of  love  is  almost  impossible.  A dan- 
ger is  needed  to  call  man’s  attention  back  sharply  to  look  to 
his  own  preservation.1  But  that  is  not  all.  What  is  harder 
to  realise — a pressing  danger  must  continue,  and  one  that 
can  only  be  averted  with  care,  in  order  that  the  habit  of 
thinking  of  his  own  preservation  may  have  time  to  take 
root.  I can  see  nothing  that  will  do  but  a storm  of  six- 
teen days,  like  that  in  Don  Juan 2 or  the  shipwreck  of 
M.  Cochelet  among  the  Moors.  Otherwise,  one  gets 
soon  used  to  the  peril,  and  even  drops  back  into  thoughts 
of  the  loved  one  with  still  more  charm — when  recon- 
noitring at  twenty  yards’  range  from  the  enemy. 

We  have  repeated  over  and  over  again  that  the  love  of 
a man,  who  loves  well,  delights  in  and  vibrates  to  every 
movement  of  his  imagination,  and  that  there  is  nothing 
in  nature  which  does  not  speak  to  him  of  the  object  of 
his  love.  Well,  this  delight  and  this  vibration  form  a 
most  interesting  occupation,  next  to  which  all  others 
pale. 

A friend  who  wants  to  work  the  cure  of  the  patient, 
must,  first  of  all,  be  always  on  the  side  of  the  woman 

1 Danger  of  Henry  Morton  in  the  Clyde.  ( Old  Mortality,  Vol.  IV, 
Chap.  X.) 

* Of  the  over-extolled  Lord  Byron. 

146 


REMEDIES  AGAINST  LOVE 


i47 

the  patient  is  in  love  with — and  all  friends,  with  more 
zeal  than  sense,  are  sure  to  do  exactly  the  opposite. 

It  is  attacking  with  forces  too  absurdly  inferior  that 
combination  of  sweet  illusions,  which  earlier  we  called 
crystallisation.1 

The  friend  in  need  should  not  forget  this  fact,  that,  if 
there  is  an  absurdity  to  be  believed,  as  the  lover  has 
either  to  swallow  it  or  renounce  everything  which 
holds  him  to  life,  he  will  swallow  it.  With  all  the  clever- 
ness in  the  world,  he  will  deny  in  his  mistress  the  most 
palpable  vices  and  the  most  villainous  infidelities.  This 
is  how,  in  passion-love,  everything  is  forgiven  after  a 
little. 

In  the  case  of  reasonable  and  cold  characters,  for  the 
lover  to  swallow  the  vices  of  a mistress,  he  must  only 
find  them  out  after  several  months  of  passion.2 

Far  from  trying  bluntly  and  openly  to  distract  the 
lover,  the  friend  in  need  ought  to  tire  him  with  talking 
of  his  love  and  his  mistress,  and  at  the  same  time  manage 
that  a host  of  little  events  force  themselves  upon  his 
notice.  Even  if  travel  isolates,3  it  is  still  no  remedy, 
and  in  fact  nothing  recalls  so  tenderly  the  object  of  our 
love  as  change  of  scene.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  the 
brilliant  Paris  salons,  next  to  women  with  the  greatest 
reputation  for  charm,  that  I was  most  in  love  with  my 
poor  mistress,  solitary  and  sad  in  her  little  room  in  the 
depth  of  the  Romagna.4 

I looked  at  the  superb  clock  in  the  brilliant  salon, 
where  I was  exiled,  for  the  hour  she  goes  out  on  foot, 
even  in  the  rain,  to  call  on  her  friend.  Trying  to  forget 
her,  I have  found  that  change  of  scene  is  the  source  of 
memories  of  one’s  love,  less  vivid  but  far  more  heavenly 

1 Merely  in  order  to  abbreviate,  and  with  apologies  for  the  new  word. 

2 Madame  Dornal  and  Serigny.  Confessions  of  le  Comte  . . . of  Duclos. 
See  the  note  to  p.  50  : death  of  General  Abdallah  at  Bologna. 

3 I cried  almost  every  day.  (Precious  words  of  the  10th  of  June.) 

4 Salviati. 


ON  LOVE 


148 

than  those  one  goes  in  search  for  in  places,  where  once 
upon  a time  one  met  her. 

In  order  that  absence  may  prove  useful,  the  friend  in 
need  must  be  always  at  hand,  and  suggest  to  the  lover’s 
mind  all  possible  reflections  on  the  history  of  his  love, 
trying  to  make  these  reflections  tiresome  through  their 
length  and  importunity.  In  this  way  he  gives  them  the 
appearance  of  commonplaces.  For  example,  tender  senti- 
mental talk  after  a dinner  enlivened  with  good  wine. 

It  is  hard  to  forget  a woman,  with  whom  one  has  been 
happy;  for,  remember,  that  there  are  certain  moments 
the  imagination  can  never  be  tired  of  evoking  and 
beautifying. 

I leave  out  all  mention  of  pride,  cruel  but  sovereign 
remedy,  which,  however,  is  not  to  be  applied  to  sensitive 
souls. 

The  first  scenes  of  Shakespeare’s  Romeo  form  an  admir- 
able picture  ; there  is  so  vast  a gap  between  the  man 
who  says  sorrowfully  to  himself : “ She  hath  forsworn  to 
love,”  and  he  who  cries  out  in  the  height  of  happiness : 
“ Come  what  sorrow  can  ! ” 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 


(Part  III) 

Her  passion  will  die  like  a lamp  for  want  of  what  the  flame  should 
feed  upon.  ( Bride  of  Lammermoor , II,  Chap.  VI.) 

THE  friend  in  need  must  beware  of  faulty  reasoning — 
for  example,  of  talking  about  ingratitude.  You 
are  giving  new  life  to  crystallisation,  by  procuring  it  a 
victory  and  a new  enjoyment. 

In  love  there  is  no  such  thing  as  ingratitude  ; the  actual 
pleasure  always  repays,  and  more  than  repays,  sacrifices 
that  seem  the  greatest.  In  love  no  other  crime  but  want 
of  honesty  seems  to  me  possible  : one  should  be  scrupulous 
as  to  the  state  of  one’s  heart. 

The  friend  in  need  has  only  to  attack  fair  and  square, 
for  the  lover  to  answer  : — 

“ To  be  in  love,  even  while  enraged  with  the  loved 
one,  is  nothing  less,  to  bring  myself  down  to  your  £ s.  d. 
style,  than  having  a ticket  in  a lottery,  in  which  the  prize 
is  a thousand  miles  above  all  that  you  can  offer  me,  in 
your  world  of  indifference  and  selfish  interests.  One  must 
have  plenty  of  vanity — and  precious  petty  vanity — to  be 
happy,  because  people  receive  you  well.  I do  not  blame 
men  for  going  on  like  this,  in  their  world,  but  in  the  love 
of  Leonore  I found  a world  where  everything  was  heavenly, 
tender  and  generous.  The  most  lofty  and  almost  in- 
credible virtue  of  your  world  counted,  between  her  and 
me,  only  as  any  ordinary  and  everyday  virtue.  Let  me 
at  all  events  dream  of  the  happiness  of  passing  my  life 
close  to  such  a creature.  Although  I understand  that 

149- 


150 


ON  LOVE 


slander  has  ruined  me,  and  that  I have  nothing  to  hope 
for,  at  least  I shall  make  her  the  sacrifice  of  my  vengeance.” 

It  is  quite  impossible  to  put  a stop  to  love  except  in 
its  first  stages.  Besides  a prompt  departure,  and  the 
forced  distractions  of  society  (as  in  the  case  of  the  Com- 
tesse  Kalember),  there  are  several  other  little  ruses, 
which  the  friend  in  need  can  bring  into  play.  For  ex- 
ample, he  can  bring  to  your  notice,  as  if  by  chance,  the 
fact  that  the  woman  you  love,  quite  outside  the  disputed 
area,  does  not  even  observe  towards  you  the  same  amount 
of  politeness  and  respect,  with  which  she  honours  your 
rival.  The  smallest  details  are  enough ; for  in  love 
everything  is  a sign.  For  example,  she  does  not  take 
your  arm  to  go  up  to  her  box.  This  sort  of  nonsense, 
taken  tragically  by  a passionate  heart,  couples  a pang  of 
humiliation  to  every  judgment  formed  by  crystallisation, 
poisons  the  source  of  love  and  may  destroy  it. 

One  way  against  the  woman,  who  is  behaving  badly 
to  our  friend,  is  to  bring  her  under  suspicion  of  some 
absurd  physical  defect,  impossible  to  verify.  If  it  were 
possible  for  the  lover  to  verify  the  calumny,  and  even  if 
he  found  it  substantiated,  it  would  be  disqualified  by  his 
imagination,  and  soon  have  no  place  with  him  at  all. 
It  is  only  imagination  itself  which  can  resist  imagination  : 
Henry  III  knew  that  very  well  when  he  scoffed  at  the 
famous  Duchesse  de  Montpensier  (22). 

Flence  it  is  the  imagination  you  must  look  to — above 
all,  in  a girl  whom  you  want  to  keep  safe  from  love. 
And  the  less  her  spirit  has  of  the  common  stuff,  the 
more  noble  and  generous  her  soul,  in  a word  the  worthier 
she  is  of  our  respect,  just  so  much  greater  the  danger 
through  which  she  must  pass. 

It  is  always  perilous,  for  a girl,  to  suffer  her 
memories  to  group  themselves  too  repeatedly  and  too 
agreeably  round  the  same  individual.  Add  gratitude, 
admiration  or  curiosity  to  strengthen  the  bonds  of 
memory,  and  she  is  almost  certainly  on  the  edge  of  the 


“FRIEND  IN  NEED” 


^Sl 

precipice.  The  greater  the  monotony  of  her  everyday 
life,  the  more  active  are  those  poisons  called  gratitude, 
admiration  and  curiosity.  The  only  thing,  then,  is  a 
swift,  prompt  and  vigorous  distraction. 

Just  so,  a little  roughness  and  “ slap-dash  ” in  the 
first  encounter,  is  an  almost  infallible  means  of  winning 
the  respect  of  a clever  woman,  if  only  the  drug  be 
administered  in  a natural  and  simple  manner. 


BOOK  II 


CHAPTER  XL 


EVERY  kind  o£  love  and  every  kind  of  imagination, 
in  the  individual,  takes  its  colour  from  one  of 
these  six  temperaments : — 

The  sanguine,  or  French, — M.  de  Francueil  (Memoirs 
of  Madame  d’Epinay) ; 

The  choleric,  or  Spanish, — Lauzun  (the  Peguilhen  of 
Saint-Simon’s  Memoirs)  ; 

The  melancholy,  or  German, — Schiller’s  Don  Carlos ; 
The  phlegmatic,  or  Dutch  ; 

The  nervous — Voltaire  ; 

The  athletic — Milo  of  Croton.1 

If  the  influence  of  temperament  makes  itself  felt  in 
ambition,  avarice,  friendship,  etc.  etc.,  what  must  it 
be  in  the  case  of  love,  in  which  the  physical  also  is  per- 
force an  ingredient  ? Let  us  suppose  that  all  kinds  of 
love  can  be  referred  to  the  four  varieties,  which  we  have 
noted : — 

Passion-love — Julie  d’Etanges ; (23) 

Gallant-love  or  gallantry ; 

Physical  love ; 

Vanity-love — “ a duchess  is  never  more  than  thirty  for 
a bourgeois.” 

We  must  submit  these  four  kinds  of  love  to  the 
six  different  characters,  with  which  habits,  dependent 
upon  the  six  kinds  of  temperament,  stamp  the  imagina- 
tion. Tiberius  did  not  have  the  wild  imagination  of 
Henry  VIII. 

1 See  Cabanis,  influence  of  the  physical,  etc. 


ON  LOVE 


156 

Then  let  us  submit  all  these  combinations,  thus  ob- 
tained, to  the  differences  of  habit  which  depend  upon 
government  or  national  character  : — 

1.  Asiatic  despotism,  such  as  may  be  seen  at  Con- 
stantinople ; 

2.  Absolute  monarchy  a la  Louis  XIV  ; 

3.  Aristocracy  masked  by  a charter,  or  government  of 
a nation  for  the  profit  of  the  rich,  as  in  England — all 
according  to  the  rules  of  a self-styled  biblical  morality  ; 

4.  A federal  republic,  or  government  for  the  profit  of 
all,  as  in  the  United  States  of  America  ; 

5.  Constitutional  monarchy,  or — 

6.  A State  in  revolution,  as  Spain,  Portugal,  France 
(24).  This  state  of  things  in  a country  gives  lively 
passions  to  everyone,  makes  manners  more  natural, 
destroys  puerilities,  the  conventional  virtues  and  senseless 
proprieties 1 — gives  seriousness  to  youth  and  causes  it  to 
despise  vanity-love  and  neglect  gallantry. 

This  state  can  last  a long  time  and  form  the  habits  of 
a generation.  In  France  it  began  in  1788,  was  interrupted 
in  1802,  and  began  again  in  1818 — to  end  God  knows 
when  ! 

After  all  these  general  ways  of  considering  love,  we 
have  the  differences  of  age,  and  come  finally  to  individual 
peculiarities. 

For  example,  we  might  say  : — 

I found  at  Dresden,  in  Count  Woltstein,  vanity-love, 
a melancholy  temperament,  monarchical  habits,  thirty 
years,  and  ...  his  individual  peculiarities. 

For  anyone  who  is  to  form  a judgment  on  love,  this 
way  of  viewing  things  is  conveniently  short  and  cooling 
to  the  head — an  essential,  but  difficult  operation. 

Now,  as  in  physiology  man  has  learnt  scarcely  anything 
about  himself,  except  by  means  of  comparative  anatomy, 

1 The  laces  missing  from  Minister  Roland’s  shoes : “ Ah,  Monsieur, 
all  is  lest,”  answers  Dumouriez,  At  the  royal  sitting,  the  President  of  the 
Assembly  cresses  his  legs, 


TEMPERAMENT 


157 

so  in  the  case  of  passions,  through  vanity  and  many  other 
causes  of  illusion,  we  can  only  get  enlightenment  on 
what  goes  on  in  ourselves  from  the  foibles  we  have 
observed  in  others.  If  by  chance  this  essay  has  any  useful 
effect,  it  will  be  by  bringing  the  mind  to  make  compari- 
sons of  this  sort.  To  lead  the  way,  I am  going  to  attempt 
a sketch  of  some  general  traits  in  the  character  of  love  in 
different  nations. 

I beg  for  pardon  if  I often  come  back  to  Italy;  in  the 
present  state  of  manners  in  Europe,  it  is  the  only  country 
where  the  plant,  which  I describe,  grows  in  all  freedom. 
In  France,  vanity ; in  Germany,  a pretentious  and 
highly  comical  philosophy  ; in  England,  pride,  timid, 
painful  and  rancorous,  torture  and  stifle  it,  or  force  it 
into  a crooked  channel.1 

1 The  reader  will  have  perceived  only  too  easily  that  this  treatise  is 
made  up  of  Lisio’s  Visconti’s  fragmentary  account  of  events,  written  in 
the  order  that  they  were  presented  to  him  on  his  travels.  All  these  events 
may  be  found  related  at  length  in  the  journal  of  his  life  ; perhaps  I 
ought  to  have  inserted  them — but  they  might  have  been  found  scarcely 
suitable.  The  oldest  notes  bear  the  date,  Berlin  1807,  and  the  last  are 
some  days  before  his  death,  June  1819.  Some  dates  have  been  altered 
expressly  to  avoid  indiscretion  ; but  the  changes,  which  I have  made,  go 
no  further  than  that.  I have  not  thought  myself  authorised  to  recast 
the  style.  This  book  was  written  in  a hundred  different  places — so  may 
it  be  read ! 


CHAPTER  XLI 


OF  NATIONS  WITH  REGARD  TO  LOVE. 
FRANCE 

I MEAN  to  put  aside  my  natural  affections  and  be 
only  a cold  philosopher.  French  women,  fashioned 
by  their  amiable  men,  themselves  creatures  only  of  vanity 
and  physical  desires,  are  less  active,  less  energetic,  less 
feared,  and,  what’s  more,  less  loved  and  less  powerful, 
than  Spanish  and  Italian  women. 

A woman  is  powerful  only  according  to  the  degree  of 
unhappiness,  which  she  can  inflict  as  punishment  on  her 
lover.  Where  men  have  nothing  but  vanity,  every 
woman  is  useful,  but  none  is  indispensable.  It  is 
success  in  winning  a woman’s  love,  not  in  keeping  it, 
which  flatters  a man.  When  men  have  only  physical 
desires,  they  go  to  prostitutes,  and  that  is  why  the 
prostitutes  of  France  are  charming  and  those  of  Spain 
the  very  reverse.  In  France,  to  a great  many  men 
prostitutes  can  give  as  much  happiness  as  virtuous  women 
• — happiness,  that  is  to  say,  without  love.  There  is 
always  one  thing  for  which  a Frenchman  has  much  more 
respect  than  for  his  mistress — his  vanity. 

In  Paris  a young  man  sees  in  his  mistress  a kind  of 
slave,  whose  destiny  it  is,  before  everything,  to  please 
his  vanity.  If  she  resist  the  orders  of  this  dominating 
passion,  he  leaves  her — and  is  only  the  better  pleased  with 
himself,  when  he  can  tell  his  friends  in  what  a piquant 
way,  with  how  smart  a gesture,  he  wraved  her  off. 

A Frenchman,  who  knew  his  own  country  well  (Meil- 
han),  said : “ In  France,  great  passions  are  as  rare  as 
great  men.” 

158 


NATIONS  WITH  REGARD  TO  LOVE  159 

No  language  has  words  to  express  how  impossible 
it  is  for  a Frenchman  to  play  the  role  of  a deserted  and 
desperate  lover,  in  full  view  of  a whole  town — yet  no 
sight  is  commoner  at  Venice  or  Bologna. 

To  find  love  at  Paris,  we  must  descend  to  those  classes, 
in  which  the  absence  of  education  and  of  vanity,  and  the 
struggle  against  real  want,  have  left  more  energy. 

To  let  oneself  be  seen  with  a great  and  unsatisfied 
desire,  is  to  let  oneself  be  seen  in  a position  of  inferiority 
— and  that  is  impossible  in  France,  except  for  people  of 
no  position  at  all.  It  means  exposing  oneself  to  all  kinds 
of  sneers — hence  come  the  exaggerated  praises  be- 
stowed on  prostitutes  by  young  men  who  mistrust  their 
own  hearts.  A vulgar  susceptibility  and  dread  of 
appearing  in  a position  of  inferiority  forms  the 
principle  of  conversation  among  provincial  people. 
Think  of  the  man  who  only  lately,  when  told  of  the 
assassination  of  H.R.H.  the  Duke  of  Berri  (25),  answered  : 
“ I knew  it.”1 

In  the  Middle  Ages  hearts  were  tempered  by  the 
presence  of  danger,  and  therein,  unless  I am  mistaken, 
lies  another  cause  of  the  astonishing  superiority  of  the 
men  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Originality,  which  among 
us  is  rare,  comical,  dangerous  and  often  affected,  was  then 
of  everyday  and  unadorned.  Countries  where  even 
to-day  danger  often  shows  its  iron  hand,  such  as  Corsica,2 

1 This  is  historical.  Many  people,  though  very  curious,  are  annoyed 
at  being  told  news ; they  are  frightened  of  appearing  inferior  to  him 
who  tells  them  the  news. 

2 Memoirs  of  M.  Realier-Dumas.  Corsica,  which,  as  regards  its  popu- 
lation of  one  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  souls,  would  not  form  a half 
of  most  French  Departments,  has  produced  in  modern  times  Salliceti, 
Pozzo  di  Borgo,  General  Sebastiani,  Cervioni,  Abbatucci,  Lucien  and 
Napoleon  Bonaparte  and  Arena.  The  Departement  du  Nord,  with  its 
nine  hundred  thousand  inhabitants,  is  far  from  being  able  to  show  a 
similar  list.  The  reason  is  that  in  Corsica  anyone,  on  leaving  his  house, 
may  be  greeted  by  a bullet ; and  the  Corsican,  instead  of  submitting  like  a 
good  Christian,  tries  to  defend  himself  and  still  more  to  be  revenged. 
That  is  the  way  spirits  like  Napoleon  are  forged.  It’s  a long  cry  from 


i6o 


ON  LOVE 


Spain  or  Italy,  can  still  produce  great  men.  In  those 
climates,  where  men’s  gall  cooks  for  three  months  under 
the  burning  heat,  it  is  activity’s  direction  that  is  to  seek  ; 
at  Paris,  I fear,  it  is  activity  itself.1 

Many  young  men,  fine  enough  to  be  sure  at  Mont- 
mirail  or  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  are  afraid  of  love  ; and 
when  you  see  them,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  fly  the  sight 
of  a young  girl  who  has  struck  them  as  pretty,  you  may 
know  that  cowardice  is  the  real  cause.  When  they 
remember  what  they  have  read  in  novels  is  expected  of 
a lover,  their  blood  runs  cold.  These  chilly  spirits  cannot 
conceive  how  the  storm  of  passion,  which  lashes  the  sea 
to  waves,  also  fills  the  sails  of  the  ship  and  gives  her  the 
power  of  riding  over  them. 

Love  is  a delicious  flower,  but  one  must  have  the 
courage  to  go  and  pick  it  on  the  edge  of  a frightful 
precipice.  Besides  ridicule,  love  has  always  staring  it  in 
the  face  the  desperate  plight  of  being  deserted  by  the 
loved  one,  and  in  her  place  only  a dead  blank  for  all  the 
rest  of  one’s  life. 

Civilisation  would  be  perfect,  if  it  could  continue  the 
delicate  pleasures  of  the  nineteenth  century  with  a more 
frequent  presence  of  danger.2 

such  surroundings  to  a palace  with  its  lords-in-waiting  and  chamberlains, 
and  a Fenelon  obliged  to  find  reasons  for  his  respect  to  His  Royal  Highness, 
when  speaking  to  H.R.H.  himself,  aged  twelve  years.  See  the  works  of 
that  great  writer. 

1 At  Paris,  to  get  on,  you  must  pay  attention  to  a million  little  details. 
None  the  less  there  is  this  very  powerful  objection.  Statistics  show  many 
more  women  who  commit  suicide  from  love  at  Paris  than  in  all  the 
towns  of  Italy  together.  This  fact  gives  me  great  difficulty ; I do  not 
know  what  to  say  to  it  for  the  moment,  but  it  doesn’t  change  my  opinion. 
It  may  be  that  our  ultra-civilised  life  is  so  wearisome,  that  death  seems 
a small  matter  to  the  Frenchman  of  to-day — or  more  likely,  overwhelmed 
by  the  wreck  of  his  vanity,  he  blows  out  his  brains. 

1 I admire  the  manners  of  the  time  of  Lewis  XIV' ; many  a man 
might  pass  in  three  days  from  the  salons  of  Marly  to  the  battle- 
field of  Senet  or  Ramillies.  Wives,  mothers,  sweethearts,  were  all  in  a 
continual  state  of  apprehension.  See  the  Letters  of  Madame  de  Sevigne. 


NATIONS  WITH  REGARD  TO  LOVE  161 


It  ought  to  be  possible  to  augment  a thousandfold  the 
pleasures  of  private  life  by  exposing  it  frequently  to  danger. 
I do  not  speak  only  of  military  danger.  I would  have 
this  danger  present  at  every  instant,  in  every  shape,  and 
threatening  all  the  interests  of  existence,  such  as  formed 
the  essence  of  life  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Such  danger  as 
our  civilisation  has  trained  and  refined,  goes  hand  in 
hand  quite  naturally  with  the  most  insipid  feebleness  of 
character. 

I hear  the  words  of  a great  man  in  A Voice  from  St 
Helena  by  Mr.  O’Meara  : — 

Order  Murat  to  attack  and  destroy  four  or  five  thousand  men 
in  such  a direction,  it  was  done  in  a moment ; but  leave  him  to 
himself,  he  was  an  imbecile  without  judgment.  I cannot  con- 
ceive how  so  brave  a man  could  be  so  “ lache.”  He  was  nowhere 
brave  unless  before  the  enemy.  There  he  was  probably  the 
bravest  man  in  the  world.  . . . He  was  a paladin,  in  fact  a Don 
Quixote  in  the  field  ; but  take  him  into  the  Cabinet,  he  was  a 
poltroon  without  judgment  or  decision.  Murat  and  Ney  were 
the  bravest  men  I ever  witnessed.  (O’Meara,  Vol.  II,  p.  95.) 

The  presence  of  danger  had  kept  in  the  language  an  energy  and  a freshness 
that  we  would  not  dare  to  hazard  nowadays ; and  yet  M.  de  Lameth 
killed  his  wife’s  lover.  If  a Walter  Scott  were  to  write  a novel  of  the 
times  of  Lewis  XIV,  we  should  be  a good  deal  surprised. 


M 


CHAPTER  XLII 


FRANCE  ( continued) 

I BEG  leave  to  speak  ill  of  France  a little  longer. 

The  reader  need  have  no  fear  of  seeing  my  satire 
remain  unpunished  ; if  this  essay  finds  readers,  I shall 
pay  for  my  insults  with  interest.  Our  national  honour 
is  wide  awake. 

France  fills  an  important  place  in  the  plan  of  this 
book,  because  Paris,  thanks  to  the  superiority  of  its  con- 
versation and  its  literature,  is,  and  will  always  be,  the 
salon  of  Europe. 

Three-quarters  of  the  billets  in  Vienna,  as  in  London, 
are  written  in  French  or  are  full  of  French  allusions 
and  quotations — Lord  knows  what  French  l1 

As  regards  great  passions,  France,  in  my  opinion,  is 
void  of  originality  from  two  causes : — 

i.  True  honour — the  desire  to  resemble  Bayard  (26) 
— in  order  to  be  honoured  in  the  world  and  there,  every 
day,  to  see  your  vanity  satisfied. 

2.  The  fool’s  honour,  or  the  desire  to  resemble  the 
upper  classes,  the  fashionable  world  of  Paris.  The  art 
of  entering  a drawing-room,  of  showing  aversion  to  a 
rival,  of  breaking  with  your  mistress,  etc. 

The  fool’s  honour  is  much  more  useful  than  true 
honour  in  ministering  to  the  pleasures  of  our  vanity, 

1 In  England,  the  gravest  writers  think  they  give  themselves  a smart 
tone  by  quoting  French  words,  which,  for  the  most  part,  have  never 
been  French,  except  in  English  grammars.  See  the  writers  for  the 
Edinburgh  Review ; see  the  Memoirs  of  the  Comtesse  de  Lichtnau,  mistress 
of  the  last  King  of  Prussia  but  one. 

162 


FRANCE 


163 

both  in  itself,  as  being  intelligible  to  fools,  and  also  as 
being  applicable  to  the  actions  of  every  day  and  every 
hour.  We  see  people,  with  only  this  fool’s  honour  and 
without  true  honour,  very  well  received  in  society ; 
but  the  contrary  is  impossible. 

This  is  the  way  of  the  fashionable  world : — 

1.  To  treat  all  great  interests  ironically.  ’Tis  natural 
enough.  Formerly  people,  really  in  society,  could  not  be 
profoundly  affected  by  anything  ; they  hadn’t  the  time. 
Residence  in  the  country  has  altered  all  this.  Besides,  it 
is  contrary  to  a Frenchman’s  nature  to  let  himself  be 
seen  in  a posture  of  admiration,1  that  is  to  say,  in  a 
position  of  inferiority,  not  only  in  relation  to  the  object 
of  his  admiration — that  goes  without  saying — but  also  in 
relation  to  his  neighbour,  if  his  neighbour  choose  to 
mock  at  what  he  admires. 

In  Germany,  Italy  and  Spain,  on  the  contrary,  admira- 
tion is  genuine  and  happy  ; there  the  admirer  is  proud 
of  his  transports  and  pities  the  man  who  turns  up  his 
nose.  I don’t  say  the  mocker,  for  that’s  an  impossible 
role  in  countries,  where  it  is  not  in  failing  in  the  imitation 
of  a particular  line  of  conduct,  but  in  failing  to  strike 
the  road  to  happiness,  that  the  only  ridicule  exists.  In 
the  South,  mistrust  and  horror  at  being  troubled  in  the 
midst  of  pleasures  vividly  felt,  plants  in  men  an  inborn 
admiration  of  luxury  and  pomp.  See  the  Courts  of 
Madrid  and  Naples ; see  a funzione  at  Cadiz — things  are 
carried  to  a point  of  delirium.2 

2.  A Frenchman  thinks  himself  the  most  miserable  of 
men,  and  almost  the  most  ridiculous,  if  he  is  obliged  to 
spend  his  time  alone.  But  what  is  love  without  solitude  ? 

3.  A passionate  man  thinks  only  of  himself ; a man 

1 The  fashionable  admiration  of  Hume  in  1775,  for  example,  or  of 
Franklin  in  1784,  is  no  objection  to  what  I sap. 

2 V oyage  en  Espagne,  bp  M.  Semple  ; he  gives  a true  picture,  and 
the  reader  will  find  a description  of  the  Battle  of  Trafalgar,  heard  in  the 
distance  which  sticks  in  the  memorp. 


ON  LOVE 


164 

who  wants  consideration  thinks  only  of  others.  Nay 
more:  before  1789,  individual  security  was  only  found 
in  France  by  becoming  one  of  a body,  the  Robe,  for 
example,1  and  by  being  protected  by  the  members  of 
that  body.  The  thoughts  of  your  neighbour  were  then 
an  integral  and  necessary  part  of  your  happiness.  This 
was  still  truer  at  the  Court  than  in  Paris.  It  is  easy  to 

1 Correspondance  of  Grimm,  January,  1783.  “Comte  de  N , 

Captain  commanding  the  guards  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  being  piqued 
at  finding  no  place  left  in  the  balcony,  the  day  of  the  opening  of  the  new 
hall,  was  so  ill-advised  as  to  dispute  his  place  with  an  honest  Procureur ; 
the  latter,  one  Maitre  Pernot,  was  by  no  means  willing  to  give  it  up. — 
‘ You’ve  taken  my  place.’ — ‘ I’m  in  my  own.’ — ‘ Who  are  you  ? ’ — ‘ I’m 
Mr.  Six  Francs  ’ . . . (that  is  to  say,  the  price  of  these  places).  Then, 
angrier  words,  insults,  jostling.  Comte  de  N pushed  his  indis- 

cretion so  far  as  to  treat  the  poor  joker  as  a thief,  and  finally  took  it  upon 
himself  to  order  the  sergeant  on  duty  to  arrest  the  person  of  the  Procureur, 
and  to  conduct  him  to  the  guard-room.  Maitre  Pernot  surrendered  with 
great  dignity,  and  went  out,  only  to  go  and  depose  his  complaint  before 
a Commissary.  The  redoubtable  body,  of  which  he  had  the  honour  to 
be  a member,  had  no  intention  of  letting  the  matter  drop.  The  affair 

came  up  before  the  Parlement.  M.  de  N was  condemned  to  pay  all 

the  expenses,  to  make  reparation  to  the  Procureur,  to  pay  him  two 
thousand  crowns  damages  and  interest,  which  were  to  be  applied,  with 
the  Procureur’s  consent,  to  the  poor  prisoners  of  the  Conciergerie  ; 
further,  the  said  Count  was  very  expressly  enjoined  never  again,  under 
pretext  of  the  king’s  orders,  to  interfere  with  a performance,  etc.  This 
adventure  made  a lot  of  noise,  and  great  interests  were  mixed  up  in  it : 
the  whole  Robe  has  considered  itself  insulted  by  an  outrage  done  to  a 
man  who  wears  its  livery,  etc.  M.  de  N , that  his  affair  may  be  for- 

gotten, has  gone  to  seek  his  laurels  at  the  Camp  of  St.  Roch.  He  couldn’t 
do  better,  people  say,  for  no  one  can  doubt  of  his  talent  for  carrying 
places  by  sheer  force.  Now  suppose  an  obscure  philosopher  in  the  place 
of  Maitre  Pernot.  Use  of  the  Duel.  (Grimm,  Part  III,  Vol.  II,  p.  102.) 

See  further  on,  p.  496,  a most  sensible  letter  of  Beaumarchais  refusing 
a closed  box  (loge  grilUe)  for  Figaro,  which  one  of  his  friends  had  asked 
of  him.  So  long  as  people  thought  that  his  answer  was  addressed  to  a 
Duke,  there  was  great  excitement,  and  they  talked  about  severe  punish- 
ment. But  it  turned  to  laughter  when  Beaumarchais  declared  that  his 
letter  was  addressed  to  Monsieur  le  President  du  Paty.  It  is  a far  cry 
from  1785  to  1822  ! We  no  longer  understand  these  feelings.  And  yet 
people  pretend  that  the  same  tragedies  that  touched  those  generations 
are  still  good  for  us ! 


FRANCE 


165 

see  how  far  such  manners,  which,  to  say  the  truth,  are 
every  day  losing  their  force,  but  which  Frenchmen  will 
retain  for  another  century,  are  favourable  to  great 
passions. 

Try  to  imagine  a man  throwing  himself  from  a 
window,  and  at  the  same  time  trying  to  reach  the  pave- 
ment in  a graceful  position. 

In  France,  the  passionate  man,  merely  as  such,  and  in 
no  other  light,  is  the  object  of  general  ridicule.  Altogether, 
he  offends  his  fellow-men,  and  that  gives  wings  to  ridicule. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 


ITALY  (27) 

ITALY’S  good  fortune  is  that  it  has  been  left  to  the 
inspiration  of  the  moment,  a good  fortune  which 
it  shares,  up  to  a certain  point,  with  Germany  and 
England. 

Furthermore,  Italy  is  a country  where  Utility,  which 
was  the  guiding  principle  of  the  mediaeval  republic,1  has 
not  been  dethroned  by  Honour  or  Virtue,  disposed  to  thead- 
vantage>>of  monarchy.2  True  honour  leads  the  way  to  the 
fool’s  honour.  It  accustoms  men  to  ask  themselves : What 

1 G.  Pecchio,  in  his  very  lively  Letters  to  a beautiful  young  English 
woman,  says  on  the  subject  of  free  Spain,  where  the  Middle  Ages  are 
not  a revival,  but  have  never  ceased  to  exist  (p.  60) : “ The  aim  of  the 
Spaniards  was  not  glory,  but  independence.  If  the  Spaniards  had  only 
fought  for  honour,  the  war  had  ended  with  the  battle  of  Tudela.  Honour 
is  a thing  of  an  odd  nature — once  soiled,  it  loses  all  its  power  of  action. 
. . . The  Spanish  army  of  the  line,  having  become  imbued  in  its  turn 
with  prejudices  in  favour  of  honour  (that  means  having  become  modern- 
European)  disbanded,  once  beaten,  with  the  thought  that,  with  honour, 
all  was  lost,  etc.” 

2 In  1620  a man  was  honoured  by  saying  unceasingly  and  as  servilely 
as  he  could  : “ The  King  my  Master  ” (See  the  Memoirs  of  Noailles, 
Torcy  and  all  Lewis  XIV’s  ambassadors).  Quite  simple — by  this  turn  of 
phrase,  he  proclaims  the  rank  he  occupies  among  subjects.  This  rank, 
dependent  on  the  King,  takes  the  place,  in  the  eyes  and  esteem  of  these 
subjects,  of  the  rank  which  in  ancient  Rome  depended  on  the  good 
opinion  of  his  fellow-citizens,  who  had  seen  him  fighting  at  Trasimene 
and  speaking  in  the  Forum.  You  can  batter  down  absolute  monarchy 
by  destroying  vanity  and  its  advance  works,  which  it  calls  conven- 
tions. The  dispute  between  Shakespeare  and  Racine  (28)  is  only  one 
form  of  the  dispute  between  Louis  XIV  and  constitutional  government. 

166 


ITALY 


167 

will  my  neighbour  think  of  my  happiness  ? But  how  can 
happiness  of  the  heart  be  an  object  of  vanity,  since  no 
one  can  see  it  ?x  In  proof  of  all  this,  France  is  the 
country,  where  there  are  fewer  marriages  from  inclina- 
tion than  anywhere  else  in  the  world.2 

And  Italy  has  other  advantages.  The  Italian  has  un- 
disturbed leisure  and  an  admirable  climate,  which  makes 
men  sensible  to  beauty  under  every  form.  He  is  ex- 
tremely, yet  reasonably,  mistrustful,  which  increases  the 
aloofness  of  intimate  love  and  doubles  its  charms.  He 
reads  no  novels,  indeed  hardly  any  books,  and  this  leaves 
still  more  to  the  inspiration  of  the  moment.  He  has 
a passion  for  music,  which  excites  in  the  soul  a move- 
ment very  similar  to  that  of  love. 

In  France,  towards  1770,  there  was  no  mistrust  ; on 
the  contrary,  it  was  good  form  to  live  and  die  before  the 
public.  As  the  Duchess  of  Luxemburg  was  intimate 
with  a hundred  friends,  there  was  no  intimacy  and  no 
friendship,  properly  so-called. 

In  Italy,  passion,  since  it  is  not  a very  rare  distinction, 
is  not  a subject  of  ridicule,3  and  you  may  hear  people 
in  the  salons  openly  quoting  general  maxims  of  love. 
The  public  knows  the  symptoms  and  periods  of  this 
illness,  and  is  very  much  concerned  with  it.  They  say 
to  a man  who  has  been  deserted : “ You’ll  be  in  despair 
for  six  months,  but  you’ll  get  over  it  in  the  end,  like 
So-and-so,  etc.” 

In  Italy,  public  opinion  is  the  very  humble  atten- 
dant on  passion.  Real  pleasure  there  exercises  the  power, 
which  elsewhere  is  in  the  hands  of  society.  ’Tis  quite 
simple — for  society  can  give  scarcely  any  pleasure  to 
a people,  who  has  no  time  to  be  vain,  and  can  have 

1 It  can  only  be  estimated  in  unpremeditated  actions. 

2 Miss  O’Neil,  Mrs.  Couts,  and  most  of  the  great  English  actresses, 
leave  the  stage  in  order  to  marry  rich  husbands. 

3 One  can  allow  women  gallantry,  but  love  makes  them  laughed  at, 
wrote  the  judicious  Abbe  Girard  in  Paris  in  1740. 


1 6 8 


ON  LOVE 


but  little  authority  over  those,  who  are  only  trying  to 
escape  the  notice  of  their  “ pacha  ” (29).  The  biases 
censure  the  passionate — but  who  cares  for  them  ? South 
of  the  Alps,  society  is  a despot  without  a prison. 

As  in  Paris  honour  challenges,  sword  in  hand,  or, 
if  possible,  bon  mot  in  the  mouth,  every  approach 
to  every  recognised  great  interest,  it  is  much  more  con- 
venient to  take  refuge  in  irony.  Many  young  men  have 
taken  up  a different  attitude,  and  become  disciples  of 
J.  J.  Rousseau  and  Madame  de  Stad.  As  irony  had 
become  vulgar,  one  had  to  fall  back  on  feelings.  A.  de 
Pezai  in  our  days  writes  like  M.  Darlincourt.  Besides, 
since  1 789,  everything  tends  to  favour  utility  or  individual 
sensibility,  as  opposed  to  honour  or  the  empire  of  opinion. 
The  sight  of  the  two  Chambers  teaches  people  to  discuss 
everything,  even  mere  nonsense.  The  nation  is  becoming 
serious,  and  gallantry  is  losing  ground. 

As  a Frenchman,  I ought  to  say  that  it  is  not  a small 
number  of  colossal  fortunes,  but  the  multiplicity  of 
middling  ones,  that  makes  up  the  riches  of  a country. 
In  every  country  passion  is  rare,  and  gallantry  is  more 
graceful  and  refined:  in  France,  as  a consequence,  it  has 
better  fortune.  This  great  nation,  the  first  in  the  world,1 
has  the  same  kind  of  aptitude  for  love  as  for  intellectual 
achievements.  In  1822  we  have,  to  be  sure,  no  Moore, 
no  Walter  Scott,  no  Crabbe,  no  Byron,  no  Monti,  no 
Pellico  ; but  we  have  among  us  more  men  of  intellect, 
clear-sighted,  agreeable  and  up  to  the  level  of  the  lights 
of  this  century,  than  England  has,  or  Italy.  It  is  for 
this  reason  that  the  debates  in  our  Chamber  of  Deputies 
in  1822,  are  so  superior  to  those  in  the  English  Parliament, 
and  that  when  a Liberal  from  England  comes  to  France, 
we  are  quite  surprised  to  find  in  him  several  opinions 
which  are  distinctly  feudal. 

1 I want  no  other  proof  than  the  world’s  envy.  See  the  Edinburgh 
Review  for  1821.  See  the  German  and  Italian  literary  journals,  and  the 
Scimiatigre  of  Alfieri. 


ITALY 


169 


A Roman  artist  wrote  from  Paris : — 

I am  exceedingly  uncomfortable  here ; I suppose  it’s  because  I 
have  no  leisure  for  falling  in  love  at  my  ease.  Here,  sensibility  is 
spent  drop  by  drop,  just  as  it  forms,  in  such  a way,  at  least  so  I 
find  it,  as  to  be  a drain  on  the  source.  At  Rome,  owing  to  the 
little  interest  created  by  the  events  of  every  day  and  the  somno- 
lence of  the  outside  world,  sensibility  accumulates  to  the  profit  of 
passion. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 
ROME 

ONLY  at  Rome1  can  a respectable  woman,  seated 
in  her  carriage,  say  effusively  to  another  woman, 
a mere  acquaintance,  what  I heard  this  morning : “ Ah, 
my  dear,  beware  of  love  with  Fabio  Vitteleschi  ; better 
for  you  to  fall  in  love  with  a highwayman  ! For  all  his 
soft  and  measured  air,  he  is  capable  of  stabbing  you  to 
the  heart  with  a knife,  and  of  saying  with  the  sweetest 
smile,  while  he  plunged  the  knife  into  your  breast : 
‘ Poor  child,  does  it  hurt  ? ’ ” And  this  conversation 
took  place  in  the  presence  of  a pretty  young  lady  of 
fifteen,  daughter  of  the  woman  who  received  the  advice, 
and  a very  wide-awake  young  lady. 

If  a man  from  the  North  has  the  misfortune  not  to 
be  shocked  at  first  by  the  candour  of  this  southern 
capacity  for  love,  which  is  nothing  but  the  simple  pro- 
duct of  a magnificent  nature,  favoured  by  the  twofold 
absence  of  good  form  and  of  all  interesting  novelty, 
after  a stay  of  one  year  the  women  of  all  other  countries 
will  become  intolerable  to  him. 

He  will  find  Frenchwomen,  perfectly  charming,  with 
their  little  graces,2  seductive  for  the  first  three  days,  but 
boring  the  fourth — fatal  day,  when  one  discovers  that 
all  these  graces,  studied  beforehand,  and  learned  by 

1 September  30th,  1819. 

1 Not  only  had  the  author  the  misfortune  not  to  be  born  at  Paris, 
but  he  had  also  lived  there  very  little.  (Editor’s  note.) 

170 


ROME 


ll1 

rote,  are  eternally  the  same,  every  day  and  for  every 
lover. 

He  will  see  German  women,  on  the  contrary,  so  very 
natural,  and  giving  themselves  up  with  so  much  ardour 
to  their  imagination,  but  often  with  nothing  to  show  in 
the  end,  for  all  their  naturalness,  but  barrenness,  in- 
sipidity, and  blue-stocking  tenderness.  The  phrase  of 
Count  Almaviva  (30)  seems  made  for  Germany : “ And 
one  is  quite  astonished,  one  fine  evening,  to  find  satiety, 
where  one  went  to  look  for  happiness.” 

At  Rome,  the  foreigner  must  not  forget  that,  if 
nothing  is  tedious  "in  countries  where  everything  is 
natural,  the  bad  is  there  still  more  bad  than  elsewhere. 
To  speak  only  of  the  men,1  we  can  see  appearing  here  in 
society  a kind  of  monster,  who  elsewhere  lies  low — a man 
passionate,  clear-sighted  and  base,  all  in  an  equal  degree. 
Suppose  evil  chance  has  set  him  near  a woman  in  some 
capacity  or  other  : madly  in  love  with  her,  suppose, 
he  will  drink  to  the  very  dregs  the  misery  of  seeing  her 
prefer  a rival.  There  he  is  to  oppose  her  happier  lover. 
Nothing  escapes  him,  and  everyone  sees  that  nothing 
escapes  him  ; but  he  continues  none  the  less,  in  despite 
of  every  honourable  sentiment,  to  trouble  the  woman, 
her  lover  and  himself.  No  one  blames  him — “ That’s 
his  way  of  getting  pleasure.” — “ He  is  doing  what  gives 
him  pleasure.”  One  evening,  the  lover,  at  the  end  of 
his  patience,  gives  him  a kick.  The  next  day  the  wretch 
is  full  of  excuses,  and  begins  again  to  torment,  constantly 
and  imperturbably,  the  woman,  the  lover  and  himself. 
One  shudders,  when  one  thinks  of  the  amount  of  un- 
happiness that  these  base  spirits  have  every  day  to  swallow 
— and  doubtless  there  is  but  one  grain  less  of  cowardice 
between  them  and  a poisoner. 

It  is  also  only  in  Italy  that  you  can  see  young  and 
elegant  millionaires  entertaining  wuth  magnificence,  in 

1 Heu  ! male  nunc  artes  miseras  haec  secula  tractant ; 

Jam  tener  assuevit  munera  velle  puer.  (Tibull.,  I,  iv.) 


ON  LOVE 


172 

full  view  of  a whole  town,  ballet  girls  from  a big  theatre, 
at  a cost  of  thirty  halfpence  a day.1 

Two  brothers  X , fine  young  fellows,  always  hunt- 

ing and  on  horseback,  are  jealous  of  a foreigner.  Instead 
of  going  and  laying  their  complaint  before  him,  they  are 
sullen,  and  spread  abroad  unfavourable  reports  of  this 
poor  foreigner.  In  France,  public  opinion  would  force 
such  men  to  prove  their  words  or  give  satisfaction  to  the 
foreigner.  Here  public  opinion  and  contempt  mean 
nothing.  Riches  are  always  certain  of  being  well  received 
everywhere.  A millionaire,  dishonoured  and  excluded 
from  every  house  in  Paris,  can  go  quite  securely  to  Rome  ; 
there  he  will  be  estimated  just  according  to  the  value 
of  his  dollars. 

1 See  in  the  manners  of  the  age  of  Lewis  XV  how  Honour  and  Aris- 
tocracy load  with  profusion  such  ladies  as  Duthe,  La  Guerre  and  others. 
Eighty  or  a hundred  thousand  francs  a year  was  nothing  extraordinary ; 
with  less,  a man  of  fashion  would  have  lowered  himself. 


CHAPTER  XLV 


ENGLAND  (31) 

I HAVE  lived  a good  deal  of  late  with  the  ballet- 
girls  of  the  Teatro  Del  Sol,  at  Valencia.  People 
assure  me  that  many  of  them  are  very  chaste  ; the  reason 
being  that  their  profession  is  too  fatiguing.  Vigano  makes 
them  rehearse  his  ballet,  the  Jewess  of  Toledo,  every 
day,  from  ten  in  the  morning  to  four,  and  from  mid- 
night to  three  in  the  morning.  Besides  this,  they  have 
to  dance  every  evening  in  both  ballets. 

This  reminds  me  that  Rousseau  prescribes  a great 
deal  of  walking  for  Emile.  This  evening  I was  strolling 
at  midnight  with  these  little  ballet  girls  out  along  the 
seashore,  and  I was  thinking  especially  how  unknown  to 
us,  in  our  sad  lands  of  mist,  is  this  superhuman  delight 
in  the  freshness  of  a sea  breeze  under  this  Valencian  sky, 
under  the  eyes  of  these  resplendent  stars  that  seem  close 
above  us.  This  alone  repays  the  journey  of  four  hundred 
leagues ; this  it  is  that  banishes  thought,  for  feeling 
is  too  strong.  I thought  that  the  chastity  of  my  little 
ballet  girls  gives  the  explanation  of  the  course  adopted 
by  English  pride,  in  order,  little  by  little,  to  bring  back 
the  morals  of  the  harem  into  the  midst  of  a civilised 
nation.  One  sees  how  it  is  that  some  of  these  young 
English  girls,  otherwise  so  beautiful  and  with  so  touch- 
ing an  expression,  leave  something  to  be  desired  as 
regards  ideas.  In  spite  of  liberty,  which  has  only  just 
been  banished  from  their  island,  and  the  admirable 
originality  of  their  national  character,  they  lack  inter- 
esting ideas  and  originality.  Often  there  is  nothing 

173 


174 


ON  LOVE 


remarkable  in  them  but  the  extravagance  of  their  refine- 
ments. It’s  simple  enough — in  England  the  modesty 
of  the  women  is  the  pride  of  their  husbands.  But, 
however  submissive  a slave  may  be,  her  society  becomes 
sooner  or  later  a burden.  Hence,  for  the  men,  the  neces- 
sity of  getting  drunk  solemnly  every  evening,1  instead  of 
as  in  Italy,  passing  the  evening  with  their  mistresses. 
In  England,  rich  people,  bored  with  their  homes  and 
under  the  pretext  of  necessary  exercise,  walk  four  or 
five  leagues  a day,  as  if  man  were  created  and  put  into 
the  world  to  trot  up  and  down  it.  They  use  up  their 
nervous  fluid  by  means  of  their  legs,  not  their  hearts ; 
after  which,  they  may  well  talk  of  female  refinement 
and  look  down  on  Spain  and  Italy. 

No  life,  on  the  other  hand,  could  be  less  busy  than 
that  of  young  Italians ; to  them  all  action  is  importunate, 
if  it  take  away  their  sensibility.  From  time  to  time  they 
take  a walk  of  half  a league  for  health’s  sake,  as  an  un- 
pleasant medicine.  As  for  the  women,  a Roman  woman 
in  a whole  year  does  not  walk  as  far  as  a young  Miss  in 
a week. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  pride  of  an  English  husband 
exalts  very  adroitly  the  vanity  of  his  wretched  wife.  He 
persuades  her,  first  of  all,  that  one  must  not  be  vulgar, 
and  the  mothers,  who  are  getting  their  daughters  ready 
to  find  husbands,  are  quick  enough  to  seize  upon  this 
idea.  Hence  fashion  is  far  more  absurd  and  despotic 
in  reasonable  England  than  in  the  midst  of  light-hearted 
France:  in  Bond  Street  was  invented  the  idea  of  the 
“ carefully  careless.”  In  England  fashion  is  a duty,  at 
Paris  it  is  a pleasure.  In  London  fashion  raises  a wall  of 
bronze  between  New  Bond  Street  and  Fenchurch  Street 
far  different  from  that  between  the  Chausee  d’Antin 
and  the  rue  Saint-Martin  at  Paris.  Husbands  are  quite 

1 This  custom  begins  to  give  way  a little  in  very  good  society,  which 
is  becoming  French,  as  everywhere  ; but  I’m  speaking  of  the  vast  gener- 
ality. 


ENGLAND 


175 

willing  to  allow  their  wives  this  aristocratic  nonsense,  to 
make  up  for  the  enormous  amount  of  unhappiness,  which 
they  impose  on  them.  I recognise  a perfect  picture 
of  women’s  society  in  England,  such  as  the  taciturn 
pride  of  its  men  produces,  in  the  once  celebrated  novels 
of  Miss  Burney.  Since  it  is  vulgar  to  ask  for  a glass  of 
water,  when  one  is  thirsty,  Miss  Burney’s  heroines  do 
not  fail  to  let  themselves  die  of  thirst.  While  flying  from 
vulgarity,  they  fall  into  the  most  abominable  affectation. 

Compare  the  prudence  of  a young  Englishman  of 
twenty-two  with  the  profound  mistrust  of  a young 
Italian  of  the  same  age.  The  Italian  must  be  mistrustful 
to  be  safe,  but  this  mistrust  he  puts  aside,  or  at  least 
forgets,  as  soon  as  he  becomes  intimate,  while  it  is  ap- 
parently just  in  his  most  tender  relationships  that  you 
see  the  young  Englishman  redouble  his  prudence  and 
aloofness.  I once  heard  this : — 

“ In  the  last  seven  months  I haven’t  spoken  to  her  of 
the  trip  to  Brighton.”  This  was  a question  of  a necessary 
economy  of  twenty-four  pounds,  and  a lover  of  twenty- 
two  years  speaking  of  a mistress,  a married  woman,  whom 
he  adored.  In  the  transports  of  his  passion  prudence 
had  not  left  him  : far  less  had  he  let  himself  go  enough 
to  say  to  his  mistress : “ I shan’t  go  to  Brighton,  because 
I should  feel  the  pinch.” 

Note  that  the  fate  of  Gianone  de  Pellico,  and  of  a 
hundred  others,  forces  the  Italian  to  be  mistrustful, 
while  the  young  English  beau  is  only  forced  to  be  prudent 
by  the  excessive  and  morbid  sensibility  of  his  vanity.  A 
Frenchman,  charming  enough  with  his  inspirations  of 
the  minute,  tells  everything  to  her  he  loves.  It  is  habit. 
Without  it  he  would  lack  ease,  and  he  knows  that  without 
ease  there  is  no  grace. 

It  is  with  difficulty  and  with  tears  in  my  eyes  that  I 
have  plucked  up  courage  to  write  all  this  ; but,  since 
I would  not,  I’m  sure,  flatter  a king,  why  should  I 
say  of  a country  anything  but  what  seems  to  me  the 


ON  LOVE 


17  6 

truth?  Of  course  it  may  be  all  very  absurd,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  this  country  gave  birth  to  the  most  lovable 
woman  that  I have  known. 

It  would  be  another  form  of  cringing  before  a monarch. 
I will  content  myself  with  adding  that  in  the  midst  of 
all  this  variety  of  manners,  among  so  many  Englishwomen, 
who  are  the  spiritual  victims  of  Englishmen’s  pride,  a 
perfect  form  of  originality  does  exist,  and  that  a family, 
brought  up  aloof  from  these  distressing  restrictions  (in- 
vented to  reproduce  the  morals  of  the  harem)  may  be 
responsible  for  charming  characters.  And  how  in- 
sufficient, in  spite  of  its  etymology, — and  how  common — 
is  this  word  “ charming  ” to  render  what  I would  express. 
The  gentle  Imogen,  the  tender  Ophelia  might  find 
plenty  of  living  models  in  England  ; but  these  models 
are  far  from  enjoying  the  high  veneration  that  is  unani- 
mously accorded  to  the  true  accomplished  Englishwoman, 
whose  destiny  is  to  show  complete  obedience  to  every 
convention  and  to  afford  a husband  full  enjoyment  of 
the  most  morbid  aristocratic  pride  and  a happiness  that 
makes  him  die  of  boredom.1 

In  the  great  suites  of  fifteen  or  twenty  rooms,  so 
fresh  and  so  dark,  in  which  Italian  women  pass  their 
lives  softly  propped  on  low  divans,  they  hear  people 
speak  of  love  and  of  music  for  six  hours  in  the  day.  At 
night,  at  the  theatre,  hidden  in  their  boxes  for  four 
hours,  they  hear  people  speak  of  music  and  love. 

Then,  besides  the  climate,  the  whole  way  of  living  is 
in  Spain  or  Italy  as  favourable  to  music  and  love,  as  it 
is  the  contrary  in  England. 

I neither  blame  nor  approve  ; I observe. 

1 See  Richardson  : the  manners  of  the  Harlowe  family,  translated  into 
modern  manners,  are  frequent  in  England.  Their  servants  are  worth 
more  than  they. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 


ENGLAND — ( continued) 

I LOVE  England  too  much  and  I have  seen  of  her  too 
little  to  be  able  to  speak  on  the  subject.  I shall 
make  use  of  the  observations  of  a friend. 

In  the  actual  state  of  Ireland  (1822)  is  realised,  for  the 
twentieth  time  in  two  centuries,1  that  curious  state  of 
society  which  is  so  fruitful  of  courageous  resolutions,  and 
so  opposed  to  a monotonous  existence,  and  in  which 
people,  who  breakfast  gaily  together,  may  meet  in  two 
hours’  time  on  the  field  of  battle.  Nothing  makes  a 
more  energetic  and  direct  appeal  to  that  disposition  of 
the  spirit,  which  is  most  favourable  to  the  tender  pas- 
sions— to  naturalness.  Nothing  is  further  removed  from 
the  two  great  English  vices — cant  and  bashfulness,— 
moral  hypocrisy  and  haughty,  painful  timidity.  (See 
the  Travels  of  Mr.  Eustace  (32)  in  Italy.)  If  this  traveller 
gives  a poor  picture  of  the  country,  in  return  he  gives  a 
very  exact  idea  of  his  own  character,  and  this  character,  as 
that  of  Mr.  Beattie  (32),  the  poet  (see  his  Life  written 
by  an  intimate  friend),  is  unhappily  but  too  common  in 
England.  For  the  priest,  honest  in  spite  of  his  cloth, 
refer  to  the  letters  of  the  Bishop  of  Landaff.2  (32). 

One  would  have  thought  Ireland  already  unfortunate 
enough,  bled  as  it  has  been  for  two  centuries  by  the 
cowardly  and  cruel  tyranny  of  England  ; but  now  there 

1 The  young  child  of  Spenser  was  burnt  alive  in  Ireland. 

2 To  refute  otherwise  than  by  insults  the  portraiture  of  a certain 
class  of  Englishmen  presented  in  these  three  works  seems  to  me  an  im- 
possible task.  Satanic  school. 

N 


177 


178  ON  LOVE 

enters  into  the  moral  state  of  Ireland  a terrible  person- 
age : the  Priest.  . . . 

For  two  centuries  Ireland  has  been  almost  as  badly 
governed  as  Sicily.  A thorough  comparison  between  these 
two  islands,  in  a volume  of  five  hundred  pages,  would 
offend  many  people  and  overwhelm  many  established 
theories  with  ridicule.  What  is  evident  is  that  the  happi- 
est of  these  two  countries — both  of  them  governed  by 
fools,  only  for  the  profit  of  a minority — is  Sicily.  Its 
governors  have  at  least  left  it  its  love  of  pleasure  ; they 
would  willingly  have  robbed  it  of  this  as  of  the  rest, 
but,  thanks  to  its  climate,  Sicily  knows  little  of  that  moral 
evil  called  Law  and  Government.1 

It  is  old  men  and  priests  who  make  the  laws  and  have 
them  executed,  and  this  seems  quite  in  keeping  with  the 
comic  jealousy,  with  which  pleasure  is  hunted  down  in  the 
British  Isles.  The  people  there  might  say  to  its  governors 
as  Diogenes  said  to  Alexander  : “ Be  content  with  your 
sinecures,  but  please  don’t  step  between  me  and  my 
daylight.”2 

By  means  of  laws,  rules,  counter-rules  and  punishments, 
the  Government  in  Ireland  has  created  the  potato,  and 
the  population  of  Ireland  exceeds  by  far  that  of  Sicily. 
This  is  to  say,  they  have  produced  several  millions  of 
degenerate  and  half-witted  peasants,  broken  down  by 

1 I call  moral  evil,  in  1822,  every  government  which  has  not  got  two 
chambers ; the  only  exception  can  be  when  the  head  of  the  government 
is  great  by  reason  of  his  probity,  a miracle  to  be  seen  in  Saxony  and  at 
Naples. 

s See  in  the  trial  of  the  late  Queen  of  England  (33),  a curious  list  of 
the  peers  with  the  sums  which  they  and  their  families  receive  from  the 
State.  For  example,  Lord  Lauderdale  and  his  family,  £36,000.  The 
half-pint  of  beer  that  is  necessary  to  the  miserable  existence  of  the  poorest 
Englishman,  is  taxed  a halfpenny  for  the  profit  of  the  noble  peer.  And, 
what  is  very  much  to  the  point,  both  of  them  know  it.  As  a result, 
neither  the  lord  nor  the  peasant  have  leisure  enough  to  think  of  love ; 
they  are  sharpening  their  arms,  the  one  publicly  and  haughtily,  the  other 
secretly  and  enraged.  (Yeomanry  and  Whiteboys.)  (34). 


ENGLAND 


179 


work  and  misery,  dragging  out  a wretched  life  of  some 
forty  or  fifty  years  among  the  marshes  of  old  Erin — and, 
you  may  be  sure,  paying  their  taxes ! A real  miracle ! 
With  the  pagan  religion  these  poor  wretches  would  at 
least  have  enjoyed  some  happiness — but  not  a bit  of  it, 
they  must  adore  St.  Patrick. 

Everywhere  in  Ireland  one  sees  none  but  peasants 
more  miserable  than  savages.  Only,  instead  of  there 
being  a hundred  thousand,  as  there  would  be  in  a state 
of  nature,  there  are  eight  millions,1  who  allow  five  hun- 
dred “ absentees  ” to  live  in  prosperity  at  London  or  Paris. 

Society  is  infinitely  more  advanced  in  Scotland,2  where, 
in  very  many  respects,  government  is  good  (the  rarity 
of  crime,  the  diffusion  of  reading,  the  non-existence  of 
bishops,  etc.).  There  the  tender  passions  can  develop 
much  more  freely,  and  it  is  possible  to  leave  these 
sombre  thoughts  and  approach  the  humorous. 

One  cannot  fail  to  notice  a foundation  of  melancholy 
in  Scottish  women.  This  melancholy  is  particularly 
seductive  at  dances,  where  it  gives  a singular  piquancy 
to  the  extreme  ardour  and  energy  with  which  they  per- 
form their  national  dances.  Edinburgh  has  another 
advantage,  that  of  being  withdrawn  from  the  vile  empire 
of  money.  In  this,  as  well  as  in  the  singular  and  savage 
beauty  of  its  site,  this  city  forms  a complete  contrast 
with  London.  Like  Rome,  fair  Edinburgh  seems  rather 
the  sojourn  of  the  contemplative  life.  At  London  you 
have  the  ceaseless  whirlwind  and  restless  interests  of 
active  life,  with  all  its  advantages  and  inconveniences. 
Edinburgh  seems  to  me  to  pay  its  tribute  to  the  devil  by 
a slight  disposition  to  pedantry.  Those  days  when  Mary 
Stuart  lived  at  old  Holyrood,  and  Riccio  was  assassinated 
in  her  arms,  were  worth  more  to  Love  (and  here  all 

1 Plunkett  Craig,  Life  of  Curran. 

2 Degree  of  civilisation  to  be  seen  in  the  peasant  Robert  Burns  and 
his  family ; a peasants’  club  with  a penny  subscription  each  meeting ; 
the  questions  discussed  there.  (See  the  Letters  of  Burns.) 


ON  LOVE 


1 80 

women  will  agree  with  me)  than  to-day,  when  one  dis- 
cusses at  such  length,  and  even  in  their  presence,  the 
preference  to  be  accorded  to  the  neptunian  system  over 
the  vulcanian  system  of  ...  I prefer  a discussion  on 
the  new  uniform  given  by  the  king  to  the  Guards,  or 
on  the  peerage  which  Sir  B.  Bloomfield  (35)  failed  to 
get — the  topic  of  London  in  my  day — to  a learned 
discussion  as  to  who  has  best  explored  the  nature  of 
rocks,  de  Werner  or  de  . . . 

I say  nothing  about  the  terrible  Scottish  Sunday,  after 
which  a Sunday  in  London  looks  like  a beanfeast.  That 
day,  set  aside  for  the  honour  of  Heaven,  is  the  best 
image  of  Hell  that  I have  ever  seen  on  earth.  “ Don’t 
let’s  walk  so  fast,”  said  a Scotchman  returning  from  church 
to  a Frenchman,  his  friend  ; “ people  might  think  we 
were  going  for  a walk.”1 

Of  the  three  countries,  Ireland  is  the  one  in  which 
there  is  the  least  hypocrisy.  See  the  New  Monthly  Maga- 
zine thundering  against  Mozart  and  the  Nozze  di 
Figaro .2 

In  every  country  it  is  the  aristocrats,  who  try  to  judge 
a literary  magazine  and  literature  ; and  for  the  last  four 
years  in  England  these  have  been  hand  in  glove  with  the 
bishops.  As  I say,  that  of  the  three  countries  where,  it 
seems  to  me,  there  is  the  least  hypocrisy,  is  Ireland  : 
on  the  contrary,  you  find  there  a reckless,  a most 
fascinating  vivacity.  In  Scotland  there  is  the  strict 
observance  of  Sunday,  but  on  Monday  they  dance  with 
a joy  and  an  abandon  unknown  to  London.  There  is 
plenty  of  love  among  the  peasant  class  in  Scotland.  The 
omnipotence  of  imagination  gallicised  the  country  in 
the  sixteenth  century. 

The  terrible  fault  of  English  society,  that  which  in  a 
single  day  creates  a greater  amount  of  sadness  than  the 
national  debt  and  its  consequences,  and  even  than  the 

1 The  same  in  America.  In  Scotland,  display  of  titles. 

2 January,  1822,  Cant. 


ENGLAND 


1 8 1 


war  to  the  death  waged  by  the  rich  against  the  poor,  is 
this  sentence  which  I heard  last  autumn  at  Croydon, 
before  the  beautiful  statue  of  the  bishop  : “ In  society 
no  one  wants  to  put  himself  forward,  for  fear  of  being 
deceived  in  his  expectations.” 

Judge  what  laws,  under  the  name  of  modesty,  such 
men  must  impose  on  their  wives  and  mistresses. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 


SPAIN  (36) 


'JDALUSIA  is  one  of  the  most  charming  sojourns 


that  Pleasure  has  chosen  for  itself  on  earth.  I 


had  three  or  four  anecdotes  to  show  how  my  ideas  about 
the  three  or  four  different  acts  of  madness,  which 
together  constitute  Love,  hold  good  for  Spain:  I have 

been  advised  to  sacrifice  them  to  French  refinement. 
In  vain  I protested  that  I wrote  in  French,  but  em- 
phatically not  French  literature.  God  preserve  me  from 
having  anything  in  common  with  the  French  writers 
esteemed  to-day ! 

The  Moors,  when  they  abandoned  Andalusia,  left  it 
their  architecture  and  much  of  their  manners.  Since  it 
is  impossible  for  me  to  speak  of  the  latter  in  the  language 
of  Madame  de  Sevigne,  I’ll  at  least  say  this  of  Moorish 
architecture  : — its  principal  trait  consists  in  providing 
every  house  with  a little  garden  surrounded  by  an  elegant 
and  graceful  portico.  There,  during  the  unbearable 
heat  of  summer,  when  for  whole  weeks  together  the 
Reaumur  thermometer  never  falls  below  a constant  level 
of  thirty  degrees,  a delicious  obscurity  pervades  these 
porticoes.  In  the  middle  of  the  little  garden  there  is 
always  a fountain,  monotonous  and  voluptuous,  whose 
sound  is  all  that  stirs  this  charming  retreat.  The 
marble  basin  is  surrounded  by  a dozen  orange-trees 
and  laurels.  A thick  canvas,  like  a tent,  covers  in  the 
whole  of  the  little  garden,  and,  while  it  protects  it  from 
the  rays  of  the  sun  and  from  the  light,  lets  in  the  gentle 

182 


SPAIN  183 

breezes  which,  at  midday,  come  down  from  the  moun- 
tains. 

There  live  and  receive  their  guests  the  fair  ladies  of 
Andalusia  : a simple  black  silk  robe,  ornamented  with 
fringes  of  the  same  colour,  and  giving  glimpses  of  a 
charming  ankle ; a pale  complexion  and  eyes  that 
mirror  all  the  most  fugitive  shades  of  the  most  tender 
and  ardent  passion — such  are  the  celestial  beings,  whom 
I am  forbidden  to  bring  upon  the  scene. 

I look  upon  the  Spanish  people  as  the  living  repre- 
sentatives of  the  Middle  Age. 

It  is  ignorant  of  a mass  of  little  truths  (the  puerile  vanity 
of  its  neighbours)  ; but  it  has  a profound  knowledge  of 
great  truths  and  enough  character  and  wit  to  follow  their 
consequences  down  to  their  most  remote  effects.  The 
Spanish  character  offers  a fine  contrast  to  French 
intellect — hard,  brusque,  inelegant,  full  of  savage  pride, 
and  unconcerned  with  others.  It  is  just  the  contrast 
of  the  fifteenth  with  the  eighteenth  century. 

Spain  provides  me  with  a good  contrast ; the  only 
people,  that  was  able  to  withstand  Napoleon,  seems  to 
me  to  be  absolutely  lacking  in  the  fool’s  honour  and  in 
all  that  is  foolish  in  honour. 

Instead  of  making  fine  military  ordinances,  of  changing 
uniforms  every  six  months  and  of  wearing  large  spurs, 
Spain  has  general  No  importa.x 

1 See  the  charming  Letters  of  M.  Pecchio.  Italy  is  full  of  people 
of  this  wonderful  type  ; but,  instead  of  letting  themselves  be  seen,  they 
try  to  keep  quiet — faese  della  virtu  scunosciuta — “Land  of  mute,  inglorious 
virtue. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII  (37) 

GERMAN  LOVE 

IF  the  Italian,  always  agitated  between  love  and  hate, 
is  a creature  of  passion,  and  the  Frenchman  of 
vanity,  the  good  and  simple  descendants  of  the  ancient 
Germans  are  assuredly  creatures  of  imagination.  Scarcely 
raised  above  social  interests,  the  most  directly  necessary 
to  their  subsistence,  one  is  amazed  to  see  them  soar  into 
what  they  call  their  philosophy,  which  is  a sort  of  gentle, 
lovable,  quite  harmless  folly.  I am  going  to  cite,  not 
altogether  from  memory,  but  from  hurriedly  taken 
notes,  a work  whose  author,  though  writing  in  a tone  of 
opposition,  illustrates  clearly,  even  in  his  admirations, 
the  military  spirit  in  all  its  excesses — I speak  of  the  Travels 
in  Austria  of  M.  Cadet-Gassicourt,  in  1809.  What  would 
the  noble  and  generous  Desaix  have  said,  if  he  had  seen 
the  pure  heroism  of  ’95  lead  on  to  this  execrable  egoism  ? 

Two  friends  find  themselves  side  by  side  with  a battery 
at  the  battle  of  Talavera,  one  as  Captain  in  command, 
the  other  as  lieutenant.  A passing  bullet  lays  the 
Captain  low.  “ Good,”  says  the  lieutenant,  quite  beside 
himself  with  joy,  “ that’s  done  for  Francis — now  I shall 
be  Captain.”  “ Not  so  quick,”  cries  Francis,  as  he  gets 
up.  He  had  only  been  stunned  by  the  bullet.  The 
lieutenant,  as  well  as  the  Captain,  were  the  best  fellows 
in  the  world,  not  a bit  ill-natured,  and  only  a little  stupid  ; 
the  excitement  of  the  chase  and  the  furious  egoism  which 
the  Emperor  had  succeeded  in  awakening,  by  decorating 
it  with  the  name  of  glory,  made  these  enthusiastic  wor- 
shippers of  him  forget  their  humanity. 

After  the  harsh  spectacle  offered  by  men  like  this,  who 

184 


GERMAN  LOVE 


185 

dispute  on  parade  at  Schoenbrunn  for  a look  from  their 
master  and  a barony — see  how  the  Emperor’s  apothecary 
describes  German  love,  page  188  : 

“ Nothing  can  be  more  sweet,  more  gentle,  than  an 
Austrian  woman.  With  her,  love  is  a cult,  and  when  she 
is  attached  to  a Frenchman,  she  adores  him — in  the  full 
force  of  the  word. 

“ There  are  light,  capricious  women  everywhere,  but 
in  general  the  Viennese  are  faithful  and  in  no  way 
coquettes  ; when  I say  that  they  are  faithful,  I mean  to 
the  lover  of  their  own  choice,  for  husbands  are  the  same 
at  Vienna  as  everywhere  else”  (June  7,  1809). 

The  most  beautiful  woman  of  Vienna  accepts  the 

homage  of  one  of  my  friends,  M.  M , a captain 

attached  to  the  Emperor’s  headquarters.  He’s  a young 
man,  gentle  and  witty,  but  certainly  neither  his  figure 
nor  face  are  in  any  way  remarkable. 

For  some  days  past  his  young  mistress  has  made  a very 
great  sensation  among  our  brilliant  staff  officers,  who 
pass  their  life  ferreting  about  in  every  corner  of  Vienna. 
It  has  become  a contest  of  daring.  Every  possible 
manoeuvre  has  been  employed.  The  fair  one’s  house 
has  been  put  in  a state  of  siege  by  all  the  best-looking  and 
richest.  Pages,  brilliant  colonels,  generals  of  the  guard, 
even  princes,  have  gone  to  waste  their  time  under  her 
windows,  and  their  money  on  the  fair  lady’s  servants. 
All  have  been  turned  away.  These  princes  were  little 
accustomed  to  find  a deaf  ear  at  Paris  or  Milan.  When  I 
laughed  at  their  discomfiture  before  this  charming 
creature  : “ But  good  Heavens,”  she  said,  “ don’t  they 
know  that  I’m  in  love  with  M.  M.  . . . ? ” 

A singular  remark  and  certainly  a most  improper  one ! 
Page  290 : “ While  we  were  at  Schoenbrunn  I noticed 
that  two  young  men,  who  were  attached  to  the  Emperor, 
never  received  anyone  in  their  lodgings  at  Vienna. 
We  used  to  chaff  them  a lot  on  their  discretion.  One 
of  them  said  to  me  one  day : ‘ I’ll  keep  no  secrets  from 


1 86 


ON  LOVE 


you : a young  woman  of  the  place  has  given  herself 
to  me,  on  condition  that  she  need  never  leave  my  apart- 
ment, and  that  I never  receive  anyone  at  all  without  her 
leave.’  I was  curious,”  says  the  traveller,  “ to  know 
this  voluntary  recluse,  and  my  position  as  doctor  giving 
me,  as  in  the  East,  an  honourable  pretext,  I accepted  a 
breakfast  offered  me  by  my  friend.  The  woman  I found 
was  very  much  in  love,  took  the  greatest  care  of  the  house- 
hold, never  wanted  to  go  out,  though  it  was  just  a 
pleasant  time  of  the  year  for  walking — and  for  the  rest, 
was  quite  certain  that  her  lover  would  take  her  back 
with  him  to  France. 

“ The  other  young  man,  who  was  also  never  to  be 
found  in  his  rooms,  soon  after  made  me  a similar  con- 
fession. I also  saw  his  mistress.  Like  the  first,  she  was 
fair,  very  pretty,  and  an  excellent  figure. 

“ The  one,  eighteen  years  of  age,  was  the  daughter  of 
a well-to-do  upholsterer  ; the  other,  who  was  about 
twenty-four,  was  the  wife  of  an  Austrian  officer,  on  service 
with  the  army  of  the  Archduke  John.  This  latter  pushed 
her  love  to  the  verge  of  what  we,  in  our  land  of  vanity, 
would  call  heroism.  Not  only  was  her  lover  faithless  to 
her,  he  also  found  himself  under  the  necessity  of  making 
a confession  of  a most  unpleasant  nature.  She  nursed 
him  with  complete  devotion ; the  seriousness  of  his 
illness  attached  her  to  her  lover ; and  perhaps  she  only 
cherished  him  the  more  for  it,  when  soon  after  his  life 
was  in  danger. 

“ It  will  be  understood  that  I,  a stranger  and  a con- 
queror, have  had  no  chance  of  observing  love  in  the  highest 
circles,  seeing  that  the  whole  of  the  aristocracy  of  Vienna 
had  retired  at  our  approach  to  their  estates  in  Hungary. 
But  I have  seen  enough  of  it  to  be  convinced  that  it  is 
not  the  same  love  as  at  Paris. 

“ The  feeling  of  love  is  considered  by  the  Germans 
as  a virtue,  as  an  emanation  of  the  Divinity,  as  something 
mystical,  It  is  not  quick,  impetuous,  jealous,  tyrannical, 


GERMAN  LOVE 


187 

as  it  is  in  the  heart  of  an  Italian  woman : it  is  profound 
and  something  like  illuminism  ; in  this  Germany  is  a 
thousand  miles  away  from  England. 

“ Some  years  ago  a Leipsic  tailor,  in  a fit  of  jealousy, 
waited  for  his  rival  in  the  public  garden  and  stabbed 
him.  He  was  condemned  to  lose  his  head.  The  moralists 
of  the  town,  faithful  to  the  German  traditions  of  kind- 
ness and  unhampered  emotion  (which  makes  for  feeble- 
ness of  character)  discussed  the  sentence,  decided  that 
it  was  severe  and,  making  a comparison  between  the  tailor 
and  Orosmanes,  were  moved  to  pity  for  his  fate.  Never- 
theless they  were  unable  to  have  his  sentence  mitigated. 
But  the  day  of  the  execution,  all  the  young  girls  of 
Leipsic,  dressed  in  white,  met  together  and  accompanied 
the  tailor  to  the  scaffold,  throwing  flowers  in  his  path. 

“No  one  thought  this  ceremony  odd  ; yet,  in  a country 
which  considers  itself  logical,  it  might  be  said  that  it 
was  honouring  a species  of  murder.  But  it  was  a cere- 
mony— and  everything  which  is  a ceremony,  is  always 
safe  from  ridicule  in  Germany.  See  the  ceremonies  at 
the  Courts  of  the  small  princes,  which  would  make  us 
Frenchmen  die  with  laughter,  but  appear  quite  imposing 
at  Meiningen  or  Koethen.  In  the  six  gamekeepers  who 
file  past  their  little  prince,  adorned  with  his  star,  they 
see  the  soldiers  of  Arminius  marching  out  to  meet  the 
legions  of  Varus. 

“ A point  of  difference  between  the  Germans  and  all 
other  peoples : they  are  exalted,  instead  of  calming 

themselves,  by  meditation.  A second  subtle  point : 
they  are  all  eaten  up  with  the  desire  to  have  character. 

“ Life  at  Court,  ordinarily  so  favourable  to  love, 
in  Germany  deadens  it.  You  have  no  idea  of  the  mass 
of  incomprehensible  minutics  and  the  pettinesses  that  con- 
stitute what  is  called  a German  Court,1 — even  the  Court 
of  the  best  princes.  (Munich,  1820). 

1 See  the  Memoirs  of  the  Margrave  de  Bayreuth  and  Vingt  ans  de 
stjour  h Berlin,  by  M.  Thiebaut. 


1 88 


ON  LOVE 


“ When  we  used  to  arrive  with  the  staff  in  a German 
town,  at  the  end  of  the  first  fortnight  the  ladies  of  the 
district  had  made  their  choice.  But  that  choice  was 
constant  ; and  I have  heard  it  said  that  the  French  were 
a shoal,  on  which  foundered  many  a virtue  till  then 
irreproachable.” 


The  young  Germans  whom  I have  met  at  Got- 
tingen, Dresden,  Koenigsberg,  etc.,  are  brought  up 
among  pseudo-systems  of  philosophy,  which  are  merely 
obscure  and  badly  written  poetry,  but,  as  regards  their 
ethics,  of  the  highest  and  holiest  sublimity.  They  seem 
to  me  to  have  inherited  from  their  Middle  Age,  not  like 
the  Italians,  republicanism,  mistrust  and  the  dagger,  but 
a strong  disposition  to  enthusiasm  and  good  faith.  Thus 
it  is  that  every  ten  years  they  have  a new  great  man  who’s 
going  to  efface  all  the  others.  (Kant,  Steding,  Fichte,  etc. 
etc.1) 

Formerly  Luther  made  a powerful  appeal  to  the  moral 
sense,  and  the  Germans  fought  thirty  years  on  end,  in 
order  to  obey  their  conscience.  It’s  a fine  word  and  one 
quite  worthy  of  respect,  however  absurd  the  belief ; 
I say  worthy  of  respect  even  from  an  artist.  See  the 

struggle  in  the  soul  of  S between  the  third  [sixth] 

commandment  of  God — “ Thou  shalt  not  kill  ” — and 
what  he  believed  to  be  the  interest  of  his  country. 

Already  in  Tacitus  we  find  a mystical  enthusiasm  for 
women  and  love,  at  least  if  that  writer  was  not  merely 
aiming  his  satire  at  Rome.2 

One  has  not  been  five  hundred  miles  in  Germany, 

1 See  in  1821  their  enthusiasm  for  the  tragedy,  the  Triumph  of  the 
Cross,  (38)  which  has  caused  Wilhelm  Tell  to  be  forgotten. 

2 I have  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  a man  of  the  liveliest  wit, 
and  at  the  same  time  as  learned  as  ten  German  professors,  and  one  who 
discloses  his  discoveries  in  terms  clear  and  precise.  If  ever  M.  F.  (39) 
publishes,  we  shall  see  the  Middle  Age  revealed  to  our  eyes  in  a full  light, 
and  we  shall  love  it.. 


GERMAN  LOVE 


189 

before  one  can  distinguish  in  this  people,  disunited  and 
scattered,  a foundation  of  enthusiasm,  soft  and  tender, 
rather  than  ardent  and  impetuous. 

If  this  disposition  were  not  so  apparent,  it  would  be 
enough  to  reread  three  or  four  of  the  novels  of  Auguste 
La  Fontaine,  whom  the  pretty  Louise,  Queen  of  Prussia, 
made  Canon  of  Magdeburg,  as  a reward  for  having  so 
well  painted  the  Peaceful  Life.1 

I see  a new  proof  of  this  disposition,  which  is  common 
to  all  the  Germans,  in  the  Austrian  code,  which  demands 
the  confession  of  the  guilty  for  the  punishment  of  almost 
all  crimes.  This  code  is  calculated  to  fit  a people,  among 
whom  crime  is  a rare  phenomenon,  and  sooner  an  excess 
of  madness  in  a feeble  being  than  the  effect  of  interests, 
daring,  reasoned  and  for  ever  in  conflict  with  society. 
It  is  precisely  the  contrary  of  what  is  wanted  in  Italy, 
where  they  are  trying  to  introduce  it — a mistake  of  well- 
meaning  people. 

I have  seen  German  judges  in  Italy  in  despair  over 
sentences  of  death  or,  what’s  the  equivalent,  the  irons, 
if  they  were  obliged  to  pronounce  it  without  the  con- 
fession of  the  guilty. 

1 The  title  of  one  of  the  novels  of  Auguste  La  Fontaine.  The  peaceful 
life,  another  great  trait  of  German  manners — it  is  the  “ farniente  ” 
of  the  Italian,  and  also  the  physiological  commentary  on  a Russian 
droski  and  on  the  English  “ horseback.” 


CHAPTER  XLIX 


A DAY  IN  FLORENCE 


Florence,  February  12,  1819. 


HIS  evening,  in  a box  at  the  theatre,  I met  a man 


who  had  some  favour  to  ask  of  a magistrate,  aged 
fifty.  His  first  question  was : “ Who  is  his  mistress  ? 
Chi  avvicina  adesso  ? ” Here  everyone’s  affairs  are 
absolutely  public  ; they  have  their  own  laws ; there  is 
an  approved  manner  of  acting,  which  is  based  on  justice 
without  any  conventionality — if  you  act  otherwise,  you 
are  a porco. 

“ What’s  the  news  ? ” one  of  my  friends  asked  yester- 
day, on  his  arrival  from  Volterra.  After  a word  of 
vehement  lamentation  about  Napoleon  and  the  English, 
someone  adds,  in  a tone  of  the  liveliest  interest : “ La 
Vitteleschi  has  changed  her  lover : poor  Gherardesca  is 
in  despair.” — “ Whom  has  she  taken  ? ” — “ Montegalli, 
the  good-looking  officer  with  a moustache,  who  had 
Princess  Colonna  ; there  he  is  down  in  the  stalls,  nailed 
to  her  box  ; he’s  there  the  whole  evening,  because  her 
husband  won’t  have  him  in  the  house,  and  there  near  the 
door  you  can  see  poor  Gherardesca,  walking  about  so 
sadly  and  counting  afar  the  glances,  which  his  faithless 
mistress  throws  his  successor.  He’s  very  changed  and 
in  the  depths  of  despair  ; it’s  quite  useless  for  his 
friends  to  try  to  send  him  to  Paris  or  London.  He  is 
ready  to  die,  he  says,  at  the  very  idea  of  leaving  Florence.” 

Every  year  there  are  twenty  such  cases  of  despair  in 
high  circles ; some  of  them  I have  seen  last  three  or  four 


A DAY  IN  FLORENCE 


191 

years.  These  poor  devils  are  without  any  shame  and  take 
the  whole  world  into  their  confidence.  For  the  rest, 
there’s  little  society  here,  and  besides,  when  one’s  in 
love,  one  hardly  mixes  with  it.  It  must  not  be  thought 
that  great  passions  and  great  hearts  are  at  all  common, 
even  in  Italy  ; only,  in  Italy,  hearts  which  are  more 
inflamed  and  less  stunted  by  the  thousand  little  cares  of 
our  vanity,  find  delicious  pleasures  even  in  the  subaltern 
species  of  love.  In  Italy  I have  seen  love  from  caprice, 
for  example,  cause  transports  and  moments  of  madness, 
such  as  the  most  violent  passion  has  never  brought  with 
it  under  the  meridian  of  Paris.1 

I noticed  this  evening  that  there  are  proper  names  in 
Italian  for  a million  particular  circumstances  in  love, 
which,  in  French,  would  need  endless  paraphrases;  for 
example,  the  action  of  turning  sharply  away,  when  from 
the  floor  of  the  house  you  are  quizzing  a woman  you  are 
in  love  with,  and  the  husband  or  a servant  come  towards 
the  front  of  her  box. 

The  following  are  the  principal  traits  in  the  character 
of  this  people  : — 

1.  The  attention,  habitually  at  the  service  of  deep 

passions,  cannot  move  rapidly.  This  is  the  most  marked 
difference  between  a Frenchman  and  an  Italian.  You 
have  only  to  see  an  Italian  get  into  a diligence  or  make  a 
payment,  to  understand  “ la  furia  francese.”  It’s  for 
this  reason  that  the  most  vulgar  Frenchman,  provided 
that  he  is  not  a witty  fool,  like  Demasure,  always  seems 
a superior  being  to  an  Italian  woman.  (The  lover  of 
Princess  D at  Rome.) 

2.  Everyone  is  in  love,  and  not  under  cover,  as  in 
France  ; the  husband  is  the  best  friend  of  the  lover. 

3.  No  one  reads. 

4.  There  is  no  society.  A man  does  not  reckon,  in 

1 Of  that  Paris  which  has  given  the  world  Voltaire,  Moli^re  and  so 
many  men  of  distinguished  wit — but  one  can’t  have  everything,  and  it 
would  show  little  wit  to  be  annoyed  at  it. 


192 


ON  LOVE 


order  to  fill  up  and  occupy  his  life,  on  the  happiness 
which  he  derives  from  two  hours’  conversation  and  the 
play  of  vanity  in  this  or  that  house.  The  word  causerie 
cannot  be  translated  into  Italian.  People  speak  when 
they  have  something  to  say,  to  forward  a passion,  but 
they  rarely  talk  just  in  order  to  talk  on  any  given  subject. 

5.  Ridicule  does  not  exist  in  Italy. 

In  France,  both  of  us  are  trying  to  imitate  the  same 
model,  and  I am  a competent  judge  of  the  way  in  which 
you  copy  it.1  In  Italy  I cannot  say  whether  the  peculiar 
action,  which  I see  this  man  perform,  does  not  give 
pleasure  to  the  performer  and  might  not,  perhaps,  give 
pleasure  to  me. 

What  is  affectation  of  language  or  manner  at  Rome,  is 
good  form  or  unintelligible  at  Florence,  which  is  only 
fifty  leagues  away.  The  same  French  is  spoken  at  Lyons 
as  at  Nantes.  Venetian,  Neapolitan  Genoese,  Piedmontese 
are  almost  entirely  different  languages,  and  only  spoken 
by  people  who  are  agreed  never  to  print  except  in  a 
common  language,  namely  that  spoken  at  Rome.  Nothing 
is  so  absurd  as  a comedy,  with  the  scene  laid  at  Milan 
and  the  characters  speaking  Roman.  It  is  only  by  music 
that  the  Italian  language,  which  is  far  more  fit  to  be 
sung  than  spoken,  will  hold  its  own  against  the  clearness 
of  French,  which  threatens  it. 

In  Italy,  fear  of  the  “ pacha  ” (29)  and  his  spies  causes 
the  useful  to  be  held  in  esteem  ; the  fool’s  honour  simply 
doesn’t  exist.2  Its  place  is  taken  by  a kind  of  petty  hatred 
of  society,  called  “ petegolismo.”  Finally,  to  make  fun 
of  a person  is  to  make  a mortal  enemy,  a very  dangerous 
thing  in  a country  where  the  power  and  activity  of 
governments  is  limited  to  exacting  taxes  and  punishing 
everything  above  the  common  level. 

1 This  French  habit,  growing  weaker  every  day,  will  increase  the 
distance  between  us  and  Moliere’s  heroes. 

2 Every  infraction  of  this  honour  is  a subject  of  ridicule  in  bourgeois 
circles  in  France.  (See  M.  Picard’s  Petite  Ville.) 


A DAY  IN  FLORENCE 


i93 


6.  The  patriotism  of  the  antechamber. 

That  pride  which  leads  a man  to  seek  the  esteem  of 
his  fellow-citizens  and  to  make  himself  one  of  them,  but 
which  in  Italy  was  cut  off,  about  the  year  1550,  from  any 
noble  enterprise  by  the  jealous  despotism  of  the  small 
Italian  princes,  has  given  birth  to  a barbarous  product, 
to  a sort  of  Caliban,  to  a monster  full  of  fury  and  sottish- 
ness, the  patriotism  of  the  antechamber,  as  M.  Turgot 
called  it,  a propos  of  the  siege  of  Calais  (the  Soldat 
laboureur  (40)  of  those  times.)  I have  seen  this  monster 
blunt  the  sharpest  spirits.  For  example,  a stranger  will 
make  himself  unpopular,  even  with  pretty  women,  if 
he  thinks  fit  to  find  anything  wrong  with  the  painter  or 
poet  of  the  town  ; he  will  be  soon  told,  and  that  very 
seriously,  that  he  ought  not  to  come  among  people  to 
laugh  at  them,  and  they  will  quote  to  him  on  this  topic 
a saying  of  Lewis  XIV  about  Versailles. 

At  Florence  people  say:  “our  Benvenuti,”  as  at 
Brescia — “ our  Arrici  ” : they  put  on  the  word  “ our  ” 
a certain  emphasis,  restrained  yet  very  comical,  not 
unlike  the  Miroir  talking  with  unction  about  national 
music  and  of  M.  Monsigny,  the  musician  of  Europe. 

In  order  not  to  laugh  in  the  face  of  these  fine  patriots 
one  must  remember  that,  owing  to  the  dissensions 
of  the  Middle  Age,  envenomed  by  the  vile  policy  of  the 
Popes,1  each  city  has  a mortal  hatred  for  its  neighbour, 
and  the  name  of  the  inhabitants  in  the  one  ahvays  stands 
in  the  other  as  a synonym  for  some  gross  fault.  The 
Popes  have  succeeded  in  making  this  beautiful  land  into 
the  kingdom  of  hate. 

This  patriotism  of  the  antechamber  is  the  greatest 
moral  sore  in  Italy,  a corrupting  germ  that  will  still  show 
its  disastrous  effects  long  after  Italy  has  thrown  off  the 
yoke  of  its  ridiculous  little  priests.2  The  form  of  this 
patriotism  is  an  inexorable  hatred  for  everything  foreign. 

1 See  the  excellent  and  curious  Histone  de  I’Eglise,  by  M.  de  Potter. 

2 1822. 


o 


194 


ON  LOVE 


Thus  they  look  on  the  Germans  as  fools,  and  get  angry 
when  someone  says : “ What  has  Italy  in  the  eighteenth 
century  produced  the  equal  of  Catherine  II  or  Frederick 
the  Great  ? Where  have  you  an  English  garden  com- 
parable to  the  smallest  German  garden,  you  who,  with 
your  climate,  have  a real  need  of  shade  ? ” 

7.  Unlike  the  English  or  French,  the  Italians  have  no 
political  prejudices ; they  all  know  by  heart  the  line  of 
La  Fontaine  : — 

Notre  ennemi  c’est  notre  M.1 

Aristocracy,  supported  by  the  priest  and  a biblical 
state  of  society,  is  a worn-out  illusion  which  only 
makes  them  smile.  In  return,  an  Italian  needs  a stay 
of  three  months  in  France  to  realise  that  a draper  may  be 
a conservative. 

8.  As  a last  trait  of  character  I would  mention  intoler- 
ance in  discussion,  and  anger  as  soon  as  they  do  not  find 
an  argument  ready  to  hand,  to  throw  out  against  that  of 
their  adversary.  At  that  point  they  visibly  turn  pale. 
It  is  one  form  of  their  extreme  sensibility,  but  it  is  not 
one  of  its  most  amiable  forms : consequently  it  is  one 
of  those  that  I am  most  willing  to  admit  as  proof  of 
the  existence  of  sensibility. 

I wanted  to  see  love  without  end,  and,  after  consider- 
able difficulty,  I succeeded  in  being  introduced  this 

evening  to  Chevalier  C and  his  mistress,  with  whom 

he  has  lived  for  fifty-four  years.  I left  the  box  of  these 
charming  old  people,  my  heart  melted  ; there  I saw  the  art 
of  being  happy,  an  art  ignored  by  so  many  young  people. 

Two  months  ago  I saw  Monsignor  R , by  whom  I 

was  well  received,  because  I brought  him  some  copies  of 
the  Minerve.  He  was  at  his  country  house  with  Madame 

D , whom  he  is  still  pleased,  after  thirty-four  years, 

“ avvicinare ,”  as  they  say.  She  is  still  beautiful,  but  there 
is  a touch  of  melancholy  in  this  household.  People 
[l  Our  enemy  is  cur  Master. — Fables , VI,  8. — Tr.] 


A DAY  IN  FLORENCE 


19  5 

attribute  it  to  the  loss  of  a son,  who  was  poisoned  long 
ago  by  her  husband. 

Here,  to  be  in  love  does  not  mean,  as  at  Paris,  to  see 
one’s  mistress  for  a quarter  of  an  hour  every  week,  and 
for  the  rest  of  the  time  to  obtain  a look  or  a shake  of  the 
hand  : the  lover,  the  happy  lover,  passes  four  or  five 
hours  every  day  with  the  woman  he  loves.  He  talks  to 
her  about  his  actions  at  law,  his  English  garden,  his 
hunting  parties,  his  prospects,  etc.  There  is  the  com- 
pletest,  the  most  tender  intimacy.  He  speaks  to  her  with 
the  familiar  “ iu ,”  even  in  the  presence  of  her  husband 
and  everywhere. 

A young  man  of  this  country,  one  very  ambitious  as 
he  believed,  was  called  to  a high  position  at  Vienna 
(nothing  less  than  ambassador).  But  he  could  not  get 
used  to  his  stay  abroad.  At  the  end  of  six  months  he 
said  good-bye  to  his  job,  and  returned  to  be  happy  in 
his  mistress’s  box  at  the  opera. 

Such  continual  intercourse  would  be  inconvenient  in 
France,  where  one  must  display  a certain  degree  of 
affectation,  and  where  your  mistress  can  quite  well  say 
to  you  : “ Monsieur  So-and-so,  you’re  glum  this  evening  ; 
you  don’t  say  a word.”  In  Italy  it  is  only  a matter  of 
telling  the  woman  you  love  everything  that  passes 
through  your  head — you  must  actually  think  aloud. 
There  is  a certain  nervous  state  which  results  from  in- 
timacy ; freedom  provokes  freedom,  and  is  only  to  be 
got  in  this  way.  But  there  is  one  great  inconvenience  ; 
you  find  that  love  in  this  way  paralyses  all  your  tastes 
and  renders  all  the  other  occupations  of  your  life  insipid. 
Such  love  is  the  best  substitute  for  passion. 

Our  friends  at  Paris,  who  are  still  at  the  stage  of 
trying  to  conceive  that  it’s  possible  to  be  a Persian 
(71),  not  knowing  what  to  say,  will  cry  out  that  such 
manners  are  indecent.  To  begin  with,  I am  only  an 
historian  ; and  secondly,  I reserve  to  myself  the  right  to 
show  one  day,  by  dint  of  solid  reasoning,  that  as  regards 


ON  LOVE 


196 

manners  and  fundamentally,  Paris  is  not  superior  to 
Bologna.  Quite  unconsciously  these  poor  people  are 
still  repeating  their  twopence-halfpenny  catechism. 

12  July , 1821.  There  is  nothing  odious  in  the  society 
of  Bologna.  At  Paris  the  role  of  a deceived  husband  is 
execrable  ; here  (at  Bologna)  it  is  nothing — there  are 
no  deceived  husbands.  Manners  are  the  same,  it  is  only 
hate  that  is  missing  ; the  recognised  lover  is  always  the 
husband’s  friend,  and  this  friendship,  which  has  been 
cemented  by  reciprocal  services,  quite  often  survives 
other  interests.  Most  love-affairs  last  five  or  six  years, 
many  for  ever.  People  part  at  last,  when  they  no  longer 
find  it  sweet  to  tell  each  other  everything,  and  when  the 
first  month  of  the  rupture  is  over,  there  is  no  bitterness. 

January , 1822.  The  ancient  mode  of  the  cavaliere 
servente , imported  into  Italy  by  Philip  II,  along  with 
Spanish  pride  and  manners,  has  entirely  fallen  into 
disuse  in  the  large  towns.  I know  of  only  one  exception, 
and  that’s  Calabria,  where  the  eldest  brother  always  takes 
orders,  marries  his  younger  brother,  sets  up  in  the  service 
of  his  sister-in-law  and  becomes  at  the  same  time  her 
lover. 

Napoleon  banished  libertinism  from  upper  Italy,  and 
even  from  here  (Naples). 

The  morals  of  the  present  generation  of  pretty  women 
shame  their  mothers  ; they  are  more  favourable  to 
passion-love,  but  physical  love  has  lost  a great  deal.1 

1 Towards  1780  the  maxim  ran  : 

Molti  averne, 

Un  goderne, 

E cambiar  spesso 

Travels  of  Shylock  [Shftrlock  ? — Tr.]. 


CHAPTER  L 


LOVE  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  (41) 

A FREE  government  is  a government  which  does  no 
harm  to  its  citizens,  but  which,  on  the  contrary, 
gives  them  security  and  tranquillity.  But  ’tis  a long 
cry  from  this  to  happiness.  That  a man  must  find 
for  himself  ; for  he  must  be  a gross  creature  who  thinks 
himself  perfectly  happy,  because  he  enjoys  security  and 
tranquillity.  We  mix  these  things  up  in  Europe,  espe- 
cially in  Italy.  Accustomed  as  we  are  to  governments, 
which  do  us  harm,  it  seems  to  us  that  to  be  delivered 
from  them  would  be  supreme  happiness ; in  this  we  are 
like  invalids,  worn  out  with  the  pain  of  our  sufferings. 
The  example  of  America  shows  us  just  the  contrary. 
There  government  discharges  its  office  quite  well,  and 
does  harm  to  no  one.  But  we  have  been  far  removed, 
for  very  many  centuries,  thanks  to  the  unhappy  state  of 
Europe,  from  any  actual  experience  of  the  kind,  and  now 
destiny,  as  if  to  disconcert  and  give  the  lie  to  all  our 
philosophy,  or  rather  to  accuse  it  of  not  knowing  all  the 
elements  of  human  nature,  shows  us,  that  just  when  the 
unhappiness  of  bad  government  is  wanting  to  America, 
the  Americans  are  wanting  to  themselves. 

One  is  inclined  to  say  that  the  source  of  sensibility  is 
dried  up  in  this  people.  They  are  just,  they  are  reason- 
able, but  they  are  essentially  not  happy. 

Is  the  Bible,  that  is  to  say,  the  ridiculous  consequences 
and  rules  of  conduct  which  certain  fantastic  wits  deduce 
from  that  collection  of  poems  and  songs,  sufficient  to 
cause  all  this  unhappiness  ? To  me  it  seems  a very 
considerable  effect  for  such  a cause. 


197 


ON  LOVE 


198 

M.  de  Volney  related  that,  being  at  table  in  the  country 
at  the  house  of  an  honest  American,  a man  in  easy  cir- 
cumstances, and  surrounded  by  children  already  grown 
up,  there  entered  into  the  dining-room  a young  man. 
“ Good  day,  William,”  said  the  father  of  the  family  ; 
“ sit  down.”  The  traveller  enquired  who  this  young 
man  was.  “ He’s  my  second  son.”  “ Where  does  he 
come  from  ? ” — “ From  Canton.” 

The  arrival  of  one  of  his  sons  from  the  end  of  the  world 
caused  no  more  sensation  than  that. 

All  their  attention  seems  employed  on  finding  a reason- 
able arrangement  of  life,  and  on  avoiding  all  inconveni- 
ences. When  finally  they  arrive  at  the  moment  of  reap- 
ing the  fruit  of  so  much  care  and  of  the  spirit  of  order 
so  long  maintained,  there  is  no  life  left  for  enjoyment. 

One  might  say  that  the  descendants  of  Penn  never 
read  that  line,  which  looks  like  their  history : — 

Et  propter  vitam  vivendi  perdere  causas. 

The  young  people  of  both  sexes,  when  winter  comes, 
which  in  this  country,  as  in  Russia,  is  the  gay  season,  go 
sleighing  together  day  and  night  over  the  snow,  often 
going  quite  gaily  distances  of  fifteen  or  twenty  miles, 
and  without  anyone  to  look  after  them.  No  incon- 
venience ever  results  from  it. 

They  have  the  physical  gaiety  of  youth,  which  soon 
passes  away  with  the  warmth  of  their  blood,  and  is  over 
at  twenty-five.  But  I find  no  passions  which  give  plea- 
sure. In  America  there  is  such  a reasonable  habit  of 
mind  that  crystallisation  has  been  rendered  impossible. 

I admire  such  happiness,  but  I do  not  envy  it  ; it  is 
like  the  happiness  of  human  beings  of  a different  and 
lower  species.  I augur  much  better  things  from  Florida 
and  Southern  America.1 

1 See  the  manners  of  the  Azores : there,  love  of  God  and  the  other 
sort  of  love  occupy  every  moment.  The  Christian  religion,  as  inter- 
preted by  the  Jesuits,  is  much  less  of  an  enemy  to  man,  in  this  sense, 


LOVE  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  199 

What  strengthens  my  conjecture  about  the  North  is 
the  absolute  lack  of  artists  and  writers.  The  United 
States  have  not  yet  (42)  sent  us  over  one  scene  of  a 
tragedy,  one  picture,  or  one  life  of  Washington. 

than  English  protestantism  ; it  permits  him  at  least  to  dance  on  Sunday  ; 
and  one  day  of  pleasure  in  the  seven  is  a great  thing  for  the  agricultural 
labourer,  who  works  hard  for  the  other  six. 


CHAPTER  LI 


LOVE  IN  PROVENCE  UP  TO  THE  CONQUEST  OF 
TOULOUSE,  IN  1328,  BY  THE  BARBARIANS 
FROM  THE  NORTH 

LOVE  took  a singular  form  in  Provence,  from  the 
year  1100  up  to  1328.  It  had  an  established 
legislation  for  the  relations  of  the  two  sexes  in  love,  as 
severe  and  as  exactly  followed  as  the  laws  of  Honour 
could  be  to-day.  The  laws  of  Love  began  by  putting 
completely  aside  the  sacred  rights  of  husbands.  They 
presuppose  no  hypocrisy.  These  laws,  taking  human 
nature  such  as  it  is,  were  of  the  kind  to  produce  a great 
deal  of  happiness. 

There  was  an  official  manner  of  declaring  oneself  a 
woman’s  lover,  and  another  of  being  accepted  by  her  as 
lover.  After  so  many  months  of  making  one’s  court  in 
a certain  fashion,  one  obtained  her  leave  to  kiss  her  hand. 
Society,  still  young,  took  pleasure  in  formalities  and 
ceremonies,  which  were  then  a sign  of  civilisation,  but 
which  to-day  would  bore  us  to  death.  The  same  trait 
is  to  be  found  in  the  language  of  Provence,  in  the  diffi- 
culty and  interlacing  of  its  rhymes,  in  its  masculine  and 
feminine  words  to  express  the  same  object,  and  indeed 
in  the  infinite  number  of  its  poets.  Everything  formal 
in  society,  which  is  so  insipid  to-day,  then  had  all  the 
freshness  and  savour  of  novelty. 

After  having  kissed  a woman’s  hand,  one  was  promoted 
from  grade  to  grade  by  force  of  merit,  and  without 
extraordinary  promotion. 

It  should  be  remarked,  however,  that  if  the  husbands 


200 


LOVE  IN  PROVENCE 


201 


were  always  left  out  of  the  question,  on  the  other  hand 
the  official  promotion  of  the  lover  stopped  at  what  we 
should  call  the  sweetness  of  a most  tender  friendship 
between  persons  of  a different  sex.1  But  after  several 
months  or  several  years  of  probation,  in  which  a woman 
might  become  perfectly  sure  of  the  character  and  dis- 
cretion of  a man,  and  he  enjoy  at  her  hand  all  the 
prerogatives  and  outward  signs  which  the  tenderest 
friendship  can  give,  her  virtue  must  surely  have  had 
to  thank  his  friendship  for  many  a violent  alarm. 

I have  spoken  of  extraordinary  promotion,  because  a 
woman  could  have  more  than  one  lover,  but  one  only  in 
the  higher  grades.  It  seems  that  the  rest  could  not  be 
promoted  much  beyond  that  degree  of  friendship  which 
consisted  in  kissing  her  hand  and  seeing  her  every  day. 
All  that  is  left  to  us  of  this  singular  civilisation  is  in  verse, 
and  in  a verse  that  is  rhymed  in  a very  fantastic  and 
difficult  way  ; and  it  need  not  surprise  us  if  the  notions, 
which  we  draw  from  the  ballads  of  the  troubadours,  are 
vague  and  not  at  all  precise.  Even  a marriage  contract 
in  verse  has  been  found.  After  the  conquest  in  1328, 
as  a result  of  its  heresy,  the  Pope,  on  several  occasions, 
ordered  everything  written  in  the  vulgar  tongue  to  be 
burnt.  Italian  cunning  proclaimed  Latin  the  only 
language  worthy  of  such  clever  people.  ’Twere  a most 
advantageous  measure  could  we  renew  it  in  1822. 

Such  publicity  and  such  official  ordering  of  love  seem 
at  first  sight  to  ill-accord  with  real  passion.  But  if  a 
lady  said  to  her  lover  : “ Go  for  your  love  of  me  and 
visit  the  tomb  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  at  Jerusalem  ; 
there  you  will  pass  three  years  and  then  return  ” — the 
lover  was  gone  immediately : to  hesitate  a moment 

would  have  covered  him  with  the  same  ignominy  as 
would  nowadays  a sign  of  wavering  on  a point  of  honour. 
The  language  of  this  people  has  an  extreme  fineness  in 

1 Memoirs  of  the  life  of  Chabanon,  written  by  himself.  The  rapping 
of  a cane  on  the  ceiling. 


202 


ON  LOVE 


expressing  the  most  fugitive  shades  of  feeling.  Another 
sign  that  their  manners  were  well  advanced  on  the  road 
of  real  civilisation  is  that,  scarcely  out  of  the  horrors 
of  the  Middle  Ages  and  of  Feudalism,  when  force  was 
everything,  we  see  the  feebler  sex  less  tyrannised  over 
than  it  is  to-day  with  the  approval  of  the  law  ; w?e  see 
the  poor  and  feeble  creatures,  who  have  the  most  to 
lose  in  love  and  whose  charms  disappear  the  quickest, 
mistresses  over  the  destiny  of  the  men  who  approach 
them.  An  exile  of  three  years  in  Palestine,  the  passage 
from  a civilisation  full  of  gaiety  to  the  fanaticism  and 
boredom  of  the  Crusaders’  camp,  must  have  been  a 
painful  duty  for  any  other  than  an  inspired  Christian. 
What  can  a woman  do  to  her  lover  who  has  basely 
deserted  her  at  Paris  ? 

I can  only  see  one  answer  to  be  made  here  : at  Paris  no 
self-respecting  woman  has  a lover.  Certainly  prudence 
has  much  more  right  to  counsel  the  woman  of  to-day  not 
to  abandon  herself  to  passion-love.  But  does  not  another 
prudence,  which,  of  course,  I am  far  from  approving, 
counsel  her  to  make  up  for  it  with  physical  love  ? Our 
hypocrisy  and  asceticism1  imply  no  homage  to  virtue  ; 
for  you  can  never  oppose  nature  with  impunity:  there 
is  only  less  happiness  on  earth  and  infinitely  less  generous 
inspiration. 

A lover  who,  after  ten  years  of  intimate  intercourse, 
deserted  his  poor  mistress,  because  he  began  to  notice 
her  two-and-thirty  years,  was  lost  to  honour  in  this 
lovable  Provence  ; he  had  no  resource  left  but  to  bury 
himself  in  the  solitude  of  a cloister.  In  those  days  it 
was  to  the  interest  of  a man,  not  only  of  generosity  but 
even  of  prudence,  to  make  display  of  no  more  passion 
than  he  really  had.  We  conjecture  all  this  ; for  very 
few  remains  are  left  to  give  us  any  exact  notions.  . . . 

We  must  judge  manners  as  a whole,  by  certain  par- 
ticular facts.  You  know  the  anecdote  of  the  poet  who 
1 The  ascetic  principle  of  Jeremy  Bentham. 


LOVE  IN  PROVENCE 


203 


had  offended  his  lady : after  two  years  of  despair  she 
deigned  at  last  to  answer  his  many  messages  and  let  him 
know  that  if  he  had  one  of  his  nails  torn  off  and  had  this 
nail  presented  to  her  by  fifty  loving  and  faithful  knights, 
she  might  perhaps  pardon  him.  The  poet  made  all  haste 
to  submit  to  the  painful  operation.  Fifty  knights,  who 
stood  in  their  ladies’  good  graces,  went  to  present  this 
nail  with  all  imaginable  pomp  to  the  offended  beauty. 
It  was  as  imposing  a ceremony  as  the  entry  of  a prince 
of  the  blood  into  one  of  the  royal  towns.  The  lover, 
dressed  in  the  garb  of  a penitent,  followed  his  nail  from 
afar.  The  lady,  after  having  watched  the  ceremony, 
which  was  of  great  length,  right  through,  deigned  to 
pardon  him  ; he  was  restored  to  all  the  sweets  of  his 
former  happiness.  History  tells  that  they  spent  long 
and  happy  years  together.  Sure  it  is  that  two  such  years 
of  unhappiness  prove  a real  passion  and  would  have 
given  birth  to  it,  had  it  not  existed  before  in  that  high 
degree. 

I could  cite  twenty  anecdotes  which  show  us  every- 
where gallantry,  pleasing,  polished  and  conducted  between 
the  two  sexes  on  principles  of  justice.  I say  gallantry, 
because  in  all  ages  passion-love  is  an  exception,  rather 
curious  than  frequent,  a something  we  cannot  reduce  to 
rules.  In  Provence  every  calculation,  everything  within 
the  domain  of  reason,  was  founded  on  justice  and  the 
equality  of  rights  between  the  two  sexes ; and  I admire 
it  for  this  reason  especially,  that  it  eliminates  unhappiness 
as  far  as  possible.  The  absolute  monarchy  under  Lewis 
XV,  on  the  contrary,  had  come  to  make  baseness  and 
perfidy  the  fashion  in  these  relations.1 

Although  this  charming  Provencal  language,  so  full  of 
delicacy  and  so  laboured  in  its  rhymes,2  was  probably  not 

1 The  reader  should  have  heard  charming  General  Laclos  talk  at 
Naples  in  1802.  If  he  has  not  had  the  luck  he  can  open  the  Vie  privee  du 
marechal  de  Richelieu,  nine  volumes  very  pleasantly  put  together. 

2 It  originated  at  Narbonne — a mixture  of  Latin  and  Arabic. 


ON  LOVE 


204 

the  language  of  the  people,  the  manners  of  the  upper 
classes  had  permeated  the  lower  classes,  which  in  Pro- 
vence were  at  that  time  far  from  coarse,  for  they  enjoyed 
a great  deal  of  comfort.  They  were  in  the  first  enjoyment 
of  a very  prosperous  and  very  valuable  trade.  The  in- 
habitants of  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean  had  just 
realised  (in  the  ninth  century)  that  to  engage  in  com- 
merce, by  risking  a few  ships  on  this  sea,  was  less  trouble- 
some and  almost  as  amusing  as  following  some  little 
feudal  lord  and  robbing  the  passers-by  on  the  neighbouring 
high-road.  Soon  after,  the  Provencals  of  the  tenth 
century  learnt  from  the  Arabs  that  there  are  sweeter 
pleasures  than  pillage,  violence  and  war. 

One  must  think  of  the  Mediterranean  as  the  home  of 
European  civilisation.  The  happy  shores  of  this  lovely 
sea,  so  favoured  in  its  climate,  were  still  more  favoured 
in  the  prosperous  state  of  their  inhabitants  and  in  the 
absence  of  all  religion  or  miserable  legislation.  The 
eminently  gay  genius  of  the  Provencals  had  by  then 
passed  through  the  Christian  religion,  without  being 
altered  by  it. 

We  see  a lively  image  of  a like  effect  from  a like  cause 
in  the  cities  of  Italy,  whose  history  has  come  dowrn  to  us 
more  distinctly  and  which  have  had  the  good  fortune 
besides  of  bequeathing  to  us  Dante,  Petrarch  and  the 
art  of  painting. 

The  Provencals  have  not  left  us  a great  poem  like 
the  Divine  Comedy,  in  which  are  reflected  all  the 
peculiarities  of  the  manners  of  the  time.  They  had,  it 
seems  to  me,  less  passion  and  much  more  gaiety  than  the 
Italians.  They  learnt  this  pleasant  way  of  taking  life 
from  their  neighbours,  the  Moors  of  Spain.  Love 
reigned  with  joy,  festivity  and  pleasure  in  the  castles  of 
happy  Provence. 

Have  you  seen  at  the  opera  the  finale  of  one  of  Rossini’s 
beautiful  operettas  ? On  the  stage  all  is  gaiety,  beauty, 
ideal  magnificence.  We  are  miles  away  from  all  the 


LOVE  IN  PROVENCE 


205 

mean  side  of  human  nature.  The  opera  is  over,  the 
curtain  falls,  the  spectators  go  out,  the  great  chandelier 
is  drawn  up,  the  lights  are  extinguished.  The  house  is 
filled  with  the  smell  of  lamps  hastily  put  out ; the 
curtain  is  pulled  up  half-way,  and  you  see  dirty,  ill- 
dressed  roughs  tumble  on  to  the  stage  ; they  bustle  about 
it  in  a hideous  way,  occupying  the  place  of  the  young 
women  who  filled  it  with  their  graces  only  a moment 
ago. 

Such  for  the  kingdom  of  Provence  was  the  effect  of 
the  conquest  of  Toulouse  by  the  army  of  Crusaders. 
Instead  of  love,  of  grace,  of  gaiety,  we  have  the  Bar- 
barians from  the  North  and  Saint  Dominic.  I shall  not 
darken  these  pages  with  a blood-curdling  account  of  the 
horrors  of  the  Inquisition  in  all  the  zeal  of  its  early  days. 
As  for  the  Barbarians,  they  were  our  fathers ; they 
killed  and  plundered  everywhere  ; they  destroyed,  for 
the  pleasure  of  destroying,  whatever  they  could  not 
carry  off ; a savage  madness  animated  them  against 
everything  that  showed  the  least  trace  of  civilisation  ; 
above  all,  they  understood  not  a word  of  that  beautiful 
southern  language ; and  that  redoubled  their  fury. 
Highly  superstitious  and  guided  by  the  terrible  S.  Dominic, 
they  thought  to  gain  Heaven  by  killing  the  Provengals. 
For  the  latter  all  was  over  ; no  more  love,  no  more  gaiety, 
no  more  poetry.  Less  than  twenty  years  after  the  con- 
quest (1335),  they  were  almost  as  barbarous  and  as  coarse 
as  the  French,  as  our  fathers.1 

Whence  had  lighted  on  this  corner  of  the  world  that 
charming  form  of  civilisation,  which  for  two  centuries 
was  the  happiness  of  the  upper  classes  of  society  f 
Apparently  from  the  Moors  of  Spain. 

1 See  7" he  State  of  the  Military  Power  of  Russia,  a truthful  work  by 
General  Sir  Robert  Wilson. 


CHAPTER  LII  (39) 

PROVENCE  IN  THE  TWELFTH  CENTURY 


I AM  going  to  translate  an  anecdote  from  the  Pro- 
vencal manuscripts.  The  facts,  of  which  you  are 
going  to  read,  happened  about  the  year  1180  and  the 
history  was  written  about  1250.1  The  anecdote,  to  be 
sure,  is  very  well  known  : the  style  especially  gives  the 
colour  of  the  society  which  produced  it. 

I beg  that  I be  allowed  to  translate  it  word  for  word, 
and  without  seeking  in  any  way  after  the  elegance  of  the 
language  of  to-day. 

“ My  Lord  Raymond  of  Roussillon  was  a valiant  baron, 
as  you  know,  and  he  took  to  wife  my  Lady  Marguerite, 
the  most  beautiful  woman  of  all  her  time  and  one  of 
the  most  endowed  with  all  good  qualities,  with  all  worth 
and  with  all  courtesy.  Now  it  happened  that  William 
of  Cabstaing  came  to  the  Court  of  my  Lord  Raymond  of 
Roussillon,  presented  himself  to  him  and  begged,  if  it 
so  pleased  him,  that  he  might  be  a page  in  his  Court. 
My  Lord  Raymond,  who  saw  that  he  was  fair  and  of 
good  grace,  told  him  that  he  was  welcome  and  that 
he  might  dwell  at  his  Court.  Thus  William  dwelt  with 
him,  and  succeeded  in  bearing  himself  so  gently  that 
great  and  small  loved  him  ; and  he  succeeded  in  placing 
himself  in  so  good  a light  that  my  Lord  Raymond  wished 
him  to  be  page  to  my  Lady  Marguerite,  his  wife  ; and 

1 The  manuscript  is  in  the  Laurentian  Library.  M.  Raynouard  gives 
it  in  Vol.  V of  his  Troubadours,  p.  187.  There  are  a good  many  faults  in 
his  text ; he  has  praised  the  Troubadours  too  much  and  understood 
them  too  little. 


206 


PROVENCE  IN  TWELFTH  CENTURY  207 

so  it  was.  Then  William  set  himself  to  merit  yet  more 
both  in  word  and  deed.  But  now,  as  is  wont  to  happen 
in  love,  it  happened  that  Love  wished  to  take  hold  of  my 
Lady  Marguerite  and  to  inflame  her  thoughts.  So  much 
did  the  person  of  William  please  her,  both  his  word  and 
his  air,  that  one  day  she  could  not  restrain  herself  from 
saying  to  him  : ‘ Now  listen,  William,  if  a woman  showed 
you  likelihood  of  love,  tell  me  would  you  dare  love  her 
well  ? ’ ‘ Yes,  that  I would,  madam,  provided  only 

that  the  likelihood  were  the  truth.’ — ‘ By  S.  John,’  said 
the  lady,  ‘ you  have  answered  well,  like  a man  of  valour  ; 
but  at  present  I wish  to  try  you,  whether  you  can  under- 
stand and  distinguish  in  matter  of  likelihood  the  differ- 
ence between  what  is  true  and  what  is  not.’ 

“ When  William  heard  these  words  he  answered : 1 My 
lady,  it  is  as  it  shall  please  you.’ 

“ He  began  to  be  pensive,  and  at  once  Love  sought 
war  with  him  ; and  the  thoughts  that  love  mingled  with 
his  entered  into  the  depth  of  his  heart,  and  straightway 
he  was  of  the  servants  of  Love  and  began  to  ‘ find  51  little 
couplets,  gracious  and  gay,  and  tunes  for  the  dance  and 
tunes  with  sweet  words,2  by  which  he  was  well  received, 
and  the  more  so  by  reason  of  her  for  whom  he  sang. 
Now  Love,  that  grants  to  his  servants  their  reward, 
when  he  pleases,  wished  to  grant  William  the  price  of 
his  ; and  behold,  he  began  to  take  hold  of  the  lady  with 
such  keen  thoughts  and  meditations  on  love  that  neither 
night  nor  day  could  she  rest,  thinking  of  the  valour  and 
prowess  that  had  been  so  beautifully  disposed  and  set 
in  William. 

“ One  day  it  happened  that  the  lady  took  William  and 
said  to  him  : ‘ William,  come  now,  tell  me,  have  you  up 
to  this  hour  taken  note  of  our  likelihood,  whether  it  truly 
is  or  lies  ? ’ William  answered : ‘ My  lady,  so  help  me 
God,  from  that  moment  onward  that  I have  been  your 

1 i.e.  to  compose. 

2 He  made  up  both  the  airs  and  the  words. 


208 


ON  LOVE 


servant,  no  thought  has  been  able  to  enter  my  heart 
but  that  you  were  the  best  woman  that  was  ever  born, 
and  the  truest  in  the  world  and  the  most  likely.  So  I 
think,  and  shall  think,  all  my  life.’  And  the  lady  an- 
swered : £ William,  I tell  you  that,  if  God  help  me,  you 
shall  never  be  deceived  by  me,  and  that  what  you  think 
shall  not  prove  vain  or  nothing.’  And  she  opened  her 
arms  and  kissed  him  softly  in  the  room  where  they  two 
sat  together,  and  they  began  their  44  druerie  ” j1  and 
straightway  there  wanted  not  those,  whom  God  holds 
in  wrath,  who  set  themselves  to  talk  and  gossip  of  their 
love,  by  reason  of  the  songs  that  William  made,  saying 
that  he  had  set  his  love  on  my  Lady  Marguerite,  and  so 
indiscriminately  did  they  talk  that  the  matter  came  to 
the  ears  of  my  Lord  Raymond.  Then  he  was  sorely 
pained  and  grievously  sad,  first  that  he  must  lose  his 
familiar  squire,  whom  he  loved  so  well,  and  more  still  for 
his  wife’s  shame. 

44  One  day  it  happened  that  William  went  out  to  hunt 
with  his  hawks  and  a single  squire  ; and  my  Lord  Ray- 
mond made  enquiry  where  he  was  ; and  a groom  an- 
swered him  that  he  had  gone  out  to  hawk,  and  one  who 
knew  added  that  it  was  in  such-and-such  a spot.  Im- 
mediately Raymond  took  arms,  which  he  hid,  and  had 
his  horse  brought  to  him,  and  all  alone  took  his  way 
towards  the  spot  whither  William  had  gone  : by  dint  of 
hard  riding  he  found  him.  When  William  saw  him 
approach  he  was  greatly  astonished,  and  at  once  evil 
thoughts  came  to  him,  and  he  advanced  to  meet  him 
and  said  : 4 My  lord,  welcome.  Why  are  you  thus  alone  ? ’ 
My  Lord  Raymond  answered  : 4 William,  because  I have 
come  to  find  you  to  enjoy  myself  with  you.  Have  you 
caught  anything  ? ’ — 4 I have  caught  nothing,  my  lord, 
because  I have  found  nothing  ; and  he  who  finds  little 
will  not  catch  much,  as  the  saying  goes.’ — 4 Enough  of 
this  talk,’  said  my  Lord  Raymond,  4 and  by  the  faith 
1 A Jar  air  amore. 


PROVENCE  IN  TWELFTH  CENTURY  209 

you  owe  me,  tell  me  the  truth  on  all  the  questions  that 
I may  wish  to  ask.’ — ‘ By  God,  my  lord,’  said  William, 
‘ if  there  is  ought  to  say,  certainly  to  you  shall  I say  it.’ 
Then  said  my  Lord  Raymond : ‘ I wish  for  no  subtleties 
here,  but  you  must  answer  me  in  all  fullness  on  everything 
that  I shall  ask  you.’ — ‘ My  lord,  as  it  shall  please  you  to 
ask,’  said  William,  ‘ so  shall  I tell  you  the  truth.’  And 
my  Lord  Raymond  asked : £ William,  as  you  value  God 
and  the  holy  faith,  have  you  a mistress  for  whom  you 
sing  and  for  whom  Love  constrains  you  ? ’ William 
answered  : ‘ My  lord,  and  how  else  should  I be  singing,  if 
Love  did  not  urge  me  on  ? Know  the  truth,  my  lord, 
that  Love  has  me  wholly  in  his  power.’  Raymond 
answered : £ I can  well  believe  it,  for  otherwise  you 
could  not  sing  so  well ; but  I wish  to  know,  if  you  please, 
who  is  your  lady.’ — £ Ah,  my  lord,  in  God’s  name,’  said 
William,  £ see  what  you  ask  me.  You  know  too  well 
that  a man  must  not  name  his  lady,  and  that  Bernard  of 
Ventadour  says : — 

“ ‘ In  one  thing  my  reason  serves  me,1 
That  never  man  has  asked  me  of  my  joy, 

But  I have  lied  to  him  thereof  willingly. 

For  this  does  not  seem  to  me  good  doctrine, 

But  rather  folly  or  a child’s  act, 

That  whoever  is  well  treated  in  love 

Should  wish  to  open  his  heart  thereon  to  another  man, 

Unless  he  can  serve  him  or  help  him.’ 

“ My  Lord  Raymond  answered  : £ And  I give  you  my 
word  that  I will  serve  you  according  to  my  power.’  So 
said  Raymond,  and  William  answered  him : £ My  lord, 
you  must  know  that  I love  the  sister  of  my  Lady  Mar- 
guerite, your  wife,  and  that  I believe  I have  exchange 
with  her  of  love.  Now  that  you  know  it,  I beg  you  to 
come  to  my  aid  and  at  least  not  to  prejudice  me.’ — £ Take 
my  word,’  said  Raymond,  £ for  I swear  to  you  and  engage 

1 Word  for  word  translation  of  the  Provencal  verses  quoted  by 
William. 


210 


ON  LOVE 


myself  to  you  that  I will  use  all  my  power  for  you.’ 
And  then  he  gave  his  word,  and  when  he  had  given  it 
to  him  Raymond  said  to  him  : ‘ I wish  us  to  go  to  her 
castle,  for  it  is  near  by.’ — ‘ And  I beg  we  may  do  so,  in 
God’s  name,’  said  William.  And  so  they  took  their  road 
towards  the  castle  of  Liet.  And  when  they  came  to 
the  castle  they  were  well  received  by  En 1 Robert  of 
Tarascon,  who  was  the  husband  of  my  Lady  Agnes,  the 
sister  of  my  Lady  Marguerite,  and  by  my  Lady  Agnes 
herself.  And  my  Lord  Raymond  took  my  Lady  Agnes 
by  the  hand  and  led  her  into  her  chamber,  and  they  sat 
down  on  the  bed.  And  my  Lord  Raymond  said  : ‘ Now 
tell  me,  my  sister-in-law,  by  the  faith  that  you  owe  me, 
are  you  in  love  with  Love  ? ’ And  she  said : ‘ Yes,  my 
lord.’ — ‘ And  whose  ? ’ said  he.  ‘ Oh,  that  I do  not 
tell  you,’  answered  she ; ‘ what  means  this  parley- 

ing • ’ 

“ In  the  end,  so  insistently  did  he  demand  that  she 
said  that  she  loved  William  of  Cabstaing  ; this  she  said 
because  she  saw  William  sad  and  pensive  and  she  knew 
well  that  he  loved  her  sister  ; and  so  she  feared  that 
Raymond  might  have  had  evil  thoughts  of  William.  Such 
a reply  gave  great  joy  to  Raymond.  Agnes  related  it  all 
to  her  husband,  and  her  husband  answered  her  that  she 
had  done  well  and  gave  her  his  word  that  she  was  at 
liberty  to  do  and  say  anything  that  could  save  William. 
Agnes  was  not  wanting  to  him.  She  called  William  all 
alone  into  her  chamber,  and  remained  so  long  with  him 
that  Raymond  thought  he  must  have  had  the  pleasures 
of  love  with  her  ; and  all  this  pleased  him,  and  he  began 
to  think  that  what  he  had  been  told  of  William  was  un- 
true and  random  talk.  Agnes  and  William  came  out  of 
her  chamber,  supper  was  prepared  and  they  supped  with 
great  gaiety.  And  after  supper  Agnes  had  the  bed  of 
her  two  neighbours  prepared  by  the  door  of  her  chamber, 

1 En,  a form  of  speech  among  the  Provencals,  which  we  would  trans- 
late by  Sir. 


PROVENCE  IN  TWELFTH  CENTURY  21 1 


and  so  well  did  the  Lady  and  William  act  their  parts 
that  Raymond  believed  he  was  with  her. 

“ And  the  next  day  they  dined  in  the  castle  with  great 
joy,  and  after  dinner  they  set  out  with  all  the  honours 
of  a noble  leave-taking,  and  came  to  Roussillon.  And  as 
soon  as  Raymond  could,  he  separated  from  William  and 
went  away  to  his  wife,  and  related  to  her  all  that  he  had 
seen  of  William  and  her  sister,  for  which  his  wife  was 
sorely  grieved  all  night.  And  the  next  day  she  had 
William  summoned  to  her  and  received  him  ill,  and  called 
him  false  friend  and  traitor.  And  William  cried  to  her 
for  pity,  as  a man  who  had  done  nought  of  that  with 
which  she  charged  him,  and  related  to  her  all  that  had 
passed,  word  for  word.  And  the  lady  sent  for  her  sister 
and  from  her  she  learnt  that  William  had  done  no  wrong. 
And  therefore  she  called  him  and  bade  him  make  a song 
by  which  he  should  show  that  he  loved  no  woman  but 
her,  and  then  he  made  the  song  which  says : — 

“ The  sweet  thoughts 
That  Love  often  gives  me. 

“ And  when  Raymond  of  Roussillon  heard  the  song 
that  William  had  made  for  his  wife,  he  made  him  come 
to  speak  with  him  some  way  from  the  castle,  and  cut 
off  his  head,  which  he  put  in  a bag  ; he  drew  out  the  heart 
from  the  body  and  put  it  with  the  head.  He  went  back 
to  the  castle  ; he  had  the  heart  roasted  and  brought  to 
his  wife  at  table  and  made  her  eat  it  without  her  knowing. 
When  she  had  eaten  it,  Raymond  rose  up  and  told  his 
wife  that  what  she  had  just  eaten  was  the  heart  of  Lord 
William  of  Cabstaing,  and  showed  her  his  head  and  asked 
her  if  the  heart  had  been  good  to  eat.  And  she  heard 
what  he  said,  and  saw  and  recognised  the  head  of  Lord 
William.  She  answered  him  and  said  that  the  heart 
had  been  so  good  and  savoury,  that  never  other  meat  or 
other  drink  could  take  away  from  her  mouth  the  taste 
that  the  heart  of  Lord  William  had  left  there.  And 


212 


ON  LOVE 


Raymond  ran  at  her  with  a sword.  She  took  to  flight, 
threw  herself  down  from  a balcony  and  broke  her  head. 

“ This  became  known  through  all  Catalonia  and  through 
all  the  lands  of  the  King  of  Aragon.  King  Alphonse  and  all 
the  barons  of  these  countries  had  great  grief  and  sorrow 
for  the  death  of  Lord  William  and  of  the  woman  whom 
Raymond  had  so  basely  done  to  death.  They  made  war 
on  him  with  fire  and  sword.  King  Alphonse  of  Aragon 
having  taken  Raymond’s  castle,  had  William  and  his 
lady  laid  in  a monument  before  the  door  of  a church  in 
a borough  named  Perpignac.  All  perfect  lovers  of  either 
sex  prayed  God  for  their  souls.  The  King  of  Aragon 
took  Raymond  and  let  him  die  in  prison,  and  gave  all  his 
goods  to  the  relatives  of  William  and  to  the  relatives  of 
the  woman  who  died  for  him.” 


CHAPTER  LIII 


ARABIA 

’npIS  beneath  the  dusky  tent  of  the  Bedouin  Arab 

X that  we  seek  the  model  and  the  home  of  true 
love.  There,  as  elsewhere,  solitude  and  a fine  climate 
have  kindled  the  noblest  passion  of  the  human  heart — 
that  passion  which  must  give  as  much  happiness  as  it 
feels,  in  order  to  be  happy  itself. 

In  order  that  love  may  be  seen  in  all  the  fullness  of  its 
power  over  the  human  heart,  equality  must  be  established 
as  far  as  possible  between  the  mistress  and  her  lover.  It 
does  not  exist,  this  equality,  in  our  poor  West  ; a woman 
deserted  is  unhappy  or  dishonoured.  Under  the  Arab’s 
tent  faith  once  plighted  cannot  be  broken.  Contempt 
and  death  immediately  follow  that  crime. 

Generosity  is  held  so  sacred  by  this  people,  that  you 
may  steal,  in  order  to  give.  For  the  rest,  every  day 
danger  stares  them  in  the  face,  and  life  flows  on  ever,  so 
to  speak,  in  a passionate  solitude.  Even  in  company  the 
Arabs  speak  little. 

Nothing  changes  for  the  inhabitant  of  the  desert  ; 
there  everything  is  eternal  and  motionless.  This  singular 
mode  of  life,  of  which,  owing  to  my  ignorance,  I can  give 
but  a poor  sketch,  has  probably  existed  since  the  time  of 
Homer.1  It  is  described  for  the  first  time  about  the  year 
600  of  our  era,  two  centuries  before  Charlemagne. 

Clearly  it  is  we  who  were  the  barbarians  in  the  eyes  of 
the  East,  when  we  went  to  trouble  them  with  our 
crusades.2  Also  we  owe  all  that  is  in  our  manner  to  these 
1 Nine  hundred  years  before  Jesus  Christ.  5 1095. 

213 


ON  LOVE 


214 

crusades  and  to  the  Moors  of  Spain.  If  we  compare 
ourselves  with  the  Arabs,  the  proud,  prosaic  man  will 
smile  with  pity.  Our  arts  are  very  much  superior  to 
theirs,  our  systems  of  law  to  all  appearance  still  more 
superior.  But  I doubt  if  we  beat  them  in  the  art 
of  domestic  happiness — we  have  always  lacked  loyalty 
and  simplicity.  In  family  relations  the  deceiver  is  the 
first  to  suffer.  For  him  the  feeling  of  safety  is  departed  ; 
always  unjust,  he  is  always  afraid. 

In  the  earliest  of  their  oldest  historical  monuments  we 
can  see  the  Arabs  divided  from  all  antiquity  into  a large 
number  of  independent  tribes,  wandering  about  the 
desert.  As  soon  as  these  tribes  were  able  to  supply,  with 
more  or  less  ease,  the  simplest  human  wants,  their  way  of 
life  was  already  more  or  less  refined.  Generosity  was 
the  same  on  every  side  ; only  according  to  the  tribe’s 
degree  of  wealth  it  found  expression,  now  in  the  quarter 
of  goat’s  flesh  necessary  for  the  support  of  life,  now  in 
the  gift  of  a hundred  camels,  occasioned  by  some  family 
connexion  or  reasons  of  hospitality. 

The  heroic  age  of  the  Arabs,  that  in  which  these 
generous  hearts  burnt  unsullied  by  any  affectation  of  fine 
wit  or  refined  sentiment,  was  that  which  preceded 
Mohammed  ; it  corresponds  to  the  fifth  century  of 
our  era,  to  the  foundations  of  Venice  and  to  the  reign 
of  Clovis.  I beg  European  pride  to  compare  the  Arab 
love-songs,  which  have  come  down  to  us,  and  the  noble 
system  of  life  revealed  in  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights , 
with  the  disgusting  horrors  that  stain  every  page  of 
Gregory  of  Tours,  the  historian  of  Clovis,  and  of  Egin- 
hard,  the  historian  of  Charlemagne. 

Mohammed  was  a puritan  ; he  wished  to  prescribe 
pleasures  which  do  no  one  any  harm  ; he  has  killed  love 
in  those  countries  which  have  accepted  Islamism.1  It 
is  for  this  reason  that  his  religion  has  always  been  less 

1 Morals  of  Constantinople.  The  one  way  of  killing  passion-love  is  to 
prevent  all  crystallisation  by  facility. 


ARABIA 


215 

observed  in  Arabia,  its  cradle,  than  in  all  the  other 
Mohammedan  countries. 

The  French  brought  away  from  Egypt  four  folio 
volumes,  entitled  The  Book  of  Songs.  These  volumes 
contain : — 

1.  Biographies  of  the  poets  who  composed  the  songs. 

2.  The  songs  themselves.  In  them  the  poet  sings  of 
everything  that  interests  him  ; when  he  has  spoken  of 
his  mistress  he  praises  his  swiftcoursers  and  his  bow.  These 
songs  were  often  love-letters  from  their  author,  giving 
the  object  of  his  love  a faithful  picture  of  all  that  passed 
in  his  heart.  Sometimes  they  tell  of  cold  nights  when  he 
has  been  obliged  to  burn  his  bow  and  arrows.  The  Arabs 
are  a nation  without  houses. 

3.  Biographies  of  the  musicians  who  have  composed 
the  music  for  these  songs. 

4.  Finally,  the  notation  of  the  musical  setting  ; for  us 
these  settings  are  hieroglyphics.  The  music  will  be  for 
ever  unknown,  and  anyhow,  it  would  not  please  us. 

There  is  another  collection  entitled  The  History  of 
those  Arabs  who  have  died  for  Love. 

In  order  to  feel  at  home  in  the  midst  of  remains  which 
owe  so  much  of  their  interest  to  their  antiquity,  and  to 
appreciate  the  singular  beauty  of  the  manners  of  which 
they  let  us  catch  a glimpse,  we  must  go  to  history  for 
enlightenment  on  certain  points. 

From  all  time,  and  especially  before  Mohammed,  the 
Arabs  betook  themselves  to  Mecca  in  order  to  make  the 
tour  of  the  Caaba  or  house  of  Abraham.  I have  seen  at 
London  a very  exact  model  of  the  Holy  City.  There  are 
seven  or  eight  hundred  houses  with  terraces  on  the  roofs, 
set  in  the  midst  of  a sandy  desert  devoured  by  the  sun. 
At  one  extremity  of  the  city  is  found  an  immense 
building,  in  form  almost  a square ; this  building  surrounds 
the  Caaba.  It  is  composed  of  a long  course  of  colon- 
nades, necessary  under  an  Arabian  sun  for  the  perform- 
ance of  the  sacred  procession,  This  colonnade  is  very 


2l6 


ON  LOVE 


important  in  the  history  of  the  manners  and  poetry  of 
the  Arabs ; it  was  apparently  for  centuries  the  one  place 
where  men  and  women  met  together.  Pell-mell,  with 
slow  steps,  and  reciting  in  chorus  their  sacred  songs, 
they  walked  round  the  Caaba — it  is  a walk  of  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour.  The  procession  was  repeated  many 
times  in  the  same  day  ; this  was  the  sacred  rite  for  which 
men  and  women  came  forth  from  all  parts  of  the  desert. 
It  is  under  the  colonnade  of  the  Caaba  that  Arab  manners 
became  polished.  A contest  between  the  father  and  the 
lover  soon  came  to  be  established — in  love-lyrics  the 
lover  discovered  his  passion  to  the  girl,  jealously  guarded 
by  brothers  and  father,  as  at  her  side  he  walked  in  the 
sacred  procession.  The  generous  and  sentimental  habits 
of  this  people  existed  already  in  the  camp  ; but  Arab 
gallantry  seems  to  me  to  have  been  born  in  the  shadow 
of  the  Caaba,  which  is  also  the  home  of  their  literature. 
At  first,  passion  was  expressed  with  simplicity  and  vehem- 
ence, just  as  the  poet  felt  it  ; later  the  poet,  instead  of 
seeking  to  touch  his  mistress,  aimed  at  fine  writing  ; 
then  followed  that  affectation  which  the  Moors  intro- 
duced into  Spain  and  which  still  to-day  spoils  the  books 
of  that  people.1 

I find  a touching  proof  of  the  Arab’s  respect  for  the 
weaker  sex  in  his  ceremony  of  divorce.  The  woman, 
during  the  absence  of  her  husband  from  whom  she 
wished  to  separate,  opened  the  tent  and  drew  it  up, 
taking  care  to  place  the  opening  on  the  opposite  side  to 
that  which  she  had  formerly  occupied.  This  simple  cere- 
mony separated  husband  and  wife  for  ever. 

1 There  are  a large  number  of  Arabic  manuscripts  at  Paris.  Those  of 
a later  date  show  some  affectation,  but  no  imitation  of  the  Greeks  or 
Romans ; it  is  this  that  makes  scholars  despise  them. 


ARABIA 


217 


FRAGMENTS 

Gathered  and  translated  from  an  Arabic  Collection  en- 
titled : The  Divan  of  Love  (39) 

Compiled  by  Ebn-Abi-Hadglat.  (Manuscripts 
of  the  King’s  Library,  Nos.  1461  and  1462.) 

Mohammed,  son  of  Djaafar  Elahouazadi,  relates 
that  Djamil  being  sick  of  the  illness  of  which  he 
died,  Elabas,  son  of  Sohail,  visited  him  and  found 
him  ready  to  give  up  the  ghost.  “ O son  of  Sohail,”  said 
Djamil  to  him,  “ what  do  you  think  of  a man  who  has 
never  drunk  wine,  who  has  never  made  illicit  gain,  who 
has  never  unrighteously  given  death  to  any  living  creature 
that  God  has  forbidden  us  to  kill,  and  who  confesses 
that  there  is  no  other  God  but  Allah  and  that  Mohammed 
is  his  prophet  ? ” “ I think,”  answered  Ben  Sohail, 

“ that  such  a man  will  be  saved  and  will  gain  Paradise  ; 
but  who  is  he,  this  man  of  whom  you  talk  ? ” “ ’Tis  I,” 
answered  Djamil.  “ I did  not  think  that  you  professed 
the  faith,”  returned  Ben  Sohail,  “ and  moreover,  for 
twenty  years  now  you  have  been  making  love  to  Bothaina, 
and  celebrating  her  in  your  verses.”  “ Here  I am,” 
answered  Djamil,  “ at  my  first  day  in  the  other  world 
and  at  my  last  in  this,  and  I pray  that  the  mercy  of 
our  Master  Mohammed  may  not  be  extended  to  me 
at  the.  day  of  judgment,  if  ever  I have  laid  hands  on 
Bothaina  for  anything  reprehensible.” 

This  Djamil  and  Bothaina,  his  mistress,  both  belonged 
to  the  Benou-Azra,  who  are  a tribe  famous  in  love  among 
all  the  tribes  of  the  Arabs.  Also  their  manner  of  loving 
has  passed  into  a proverb,  and  God  has  made  no  other 
creatures  as  tender  in  love  as  they. 

Sahid,  son  of  Agba,  one  day  asked  an  Arab  : “ Of  what 
people  are  you  ? ” “I  am  of  the  people  that  die  when 
they  love,”  replied  the  Arab.  “ Then  you  are  of  tbg 


ON  LOVE 


2 1 8 

tribe  of  Azra,”  added  Sahid.  “ Yes,  by  the  Master  of 
the  Caaba,”  replied  the  Arab.  “ Whence  comes  it  that 
you  love  in  this  manner  ? ” Sahid  asked  next.  “ Our 
women  are  beautiful  and  our  young  men  are  chaste,” 
answered  the  Arab. 

One  day  someone  asked  Aroua-Ben-Hezam  i1  “Is  it 
really  true  what  people  tell  of  you,  that  you  of  all  man- 
kind have  the  heart  most  tender  in  love  ? ” “ Yes,  by 

Allah,  it  is  true,”  answered  Aroua,  “ and  I have  known 
in  my  tribe  thirty  young  men  whom  death  has  carried 
off  and  who  had  no  other  sickness  but  love.” 

An  Arab  of  the  Benou-Fazarat  said  one  day  to  an  Arab 
of  the  Benou-Azra  : “ You,  Benou-Azra,  you  think  it  a 
sweet  and  noble  death  to  die  of  love  ; but  therein  is  a 
manifest  weakness  and  stupidity  ; and  those  whom  you 
take  for  men  of  great  heart  are  only  madmen  and  soft 
creatures.”  “ You  would  not  talk  like  that,”  the  Arab 
of  the  tribe  of  Azra  answered  him,  “ if  you  had  seen 
the  great  black  eyes  of  our  women  darting  fire  from 
beneath  the  veil  of  their  long  lashes,  if  you  had  seen  them 
smile  and  their  teeth  gleaming  between  their  brown  lips ! ” 

Abou-el-Hassan,  Ali,  son  of  Abdalla,  Elzagouni,  relates 
the  following  story : A Mussulman  loved  to  distraction 
the  daughter  of  a Christian.  He  was  obliged  to  make  a 
journey  to  a foreign  country  with  a friend,  to  whom  he 
had  confided  his  love.  His  business  prolonged  his  stay 
in  this  country,  and  being  attacked  there  by  a mortal 
sickness,  he  said  to  his  friend  : “ Behold,  my  time  ap- 
proaches ; no  more  in  the  world  shall  I meet  her  whom 
I love,  and  I fear,  if  I die  a Mussulman,  that  I shall  not 
meet  her  again  in  the  other  life.”  He  turned  Christian 
and  died.  His  friend  betook  himself  to  the  young 
Christian  woman,  whom  he  found  sick.  She  said  to  him  : 

1 This  Aroua-Ben-Hezam  was  of  the  tribe  of  Azra,  of  which  men- 
tion has  just  been  made.  He  is  celebrated  as  a poet,  and  still  more 
celebrated  as  one  of  the  numerous  martyrs  to  love  whom  the  Arabs 
enumerate. 


ARABIA 


219 


“ I shall  not  see  my  friend  any  more  in  this  world,  but 
I want  to  be  with  him  in  the  other  ; therefore  I confess 
that  there  is  no  other  God  but  Allah,  and  that  Mohammed 
is  the  prophet  of  God.”  Thereupon  she  died,  and  may 
God’s  mercy  be  upon  her.* 

Eltemimi  relates  that  there  was  in  the  tribe  of  the 
Arabs  of  Tagleb  a Christian  girl  of  great  riches  who  was 
in  love  with  a young  Mussulman.  She  offered  him  her 
fortune  and  all  her  treasures  without  succeeding  in 
making  him  love  her.  When  she  had  lost  all  hope  she 
gave  an  artist  a hundred  dinars,  to  make  her  a statue  of 
the  young  man  she  loved.  The  artist  made  the  statue, 
and  when  the  girl  got  it,  she  placed  it  in  a certain  spot 
where  she  went  every  day.  There  she  would  begin  by 
kissing  this  statue,  and  then  sat  down  beside  it  and  spent 
the  rest  of  the  day  in  weeping.  When  the  evening  came 
she  would  bow  to  the  statue  and  retire.  This  she  did 
for  a long  time.  The  young  man  chanced  to  die ; she 
desired  to  see  him  and  to  embrace  him  dead,  after  which 
she  returned  to  her  statue,  bowed  to  it,  kissed  it  as  usual, 
and  lay  down  beside  it.  When  day  came,  they  found  her 
dead,  stretching  out  her  hand  towards  some  lines  of 
writing,  which  she  had  written  before  she  died.* 

Oueddah,  of  the  land  of  Yamen,  was  renowned  among 
the  Arabs  for  his  beauty.  He  and  Om-el-Bonain,  daughter 
of  Abd-el-Aziz,  son  of  Merouan,  while  still  only  children, 
were  even  then  so  much  in  love  that  they  could  not  bear 
to  be  parted  from  each  other  for  a moment.  When 
Om-el-Bonain  became  the  wife  of  Oualid-Ben-Abd-el- 
Malek,  Oueddah  became  mad  for  grief.  After  remaining 
a long  time  in  a state  of  distraction  and  suffering,  he 
betook  himself  to  Syria  and  began  every  day  to  prowl 
around  the  house  of  Oualid,  son  of  Malek,  without  at 
first  finding  the  means  to  attain  his  desire.  In  the  end, 
he  made  the  acquaintance  of  a girl,  whom  he  succeeded 
in  attaching  to  himself  by  dint  of  his  perseverance  and 
his  pains.  When  he  thought  he  could  rely  on  her,  he 


220 


ON  LOVE 


asked  her  if  she  knew  Om-el-Bonain.  “ To  be  sure  I 
do,”  answered  the  girl,  “ seeing  she  is  my  mistress.” 
“ Listen,”  continued  Oueddah,  “ your  mistress  is  my 
cousin,  and  if  you  care  to  tell  her  about  me,  you  will 
certainly  give  her  pleasure.”  “ I’ll  tell  her  willingly,” 
answered  the  girl.  And  thereupon  she  ran  straight  to 
Om-el-Bonain  to  tell  her  about  Oueddah.  “ Take  care 
what  you  say,”  cried  Om-el-Bonain.  “What?  Oueddah 
is  alive  ? ” “ Certainly  he  is,”  said  the  girl.  “ Go  and 
tell  him,”  Om-el-Bonain  went  on,  “ on  no  account  to 
depart  until  a messenger  comes  to  him  from  me.”  Then 
she  took  measures  to  get  Oueddah  brought  to  her,  where 
she  kept  him  hidden  in  a coffer.  She  let  him  come  out 
to  be  with  her  when  she  thought  it  safe  ; but  if  someone 
arrived  who  might  have  seen  him,  she  made  him  get 
inside  the  coffer  again. 

It  happened  one  day  that  a pearl  was  brought  to  Oualid 
and  he  said  to  one  of  his  attendants : “ Take  this  pearl 
and  give  it  to  Om-el-Bonain.”  The  attendant  took  the 
pearl  and  gave  it  to  Om-el-Bonain.  As  he  was  not 
announced,  he  entered  where  she  dwelt  at  a time  when 
she  was  with  Oueddah,  and  thus  he  was  able  to  throw  a 
glance  into  Om-el-Bonain’s  apartment  without  her 
noticing  him.  Oualid’s  attendant  fulfilled  his  mission 
and  asked  something  of  Om-el-Bonain  for  the  jewel  he 
had  brought  her.  She  refused  him  with  severity  and 
reprimanded  him.  The  attendant  went  out  incensed 
against  her,  and  went  to  tell  Oualid  what  he  had  seen, 
describing  the  coffer  into  which  he  had  seen  Oueddah 
enter.  “ You  lie,  bastard  slave  ! You  lie,”  said  Oualid. 
And  he  ran  in  haste  to  Om-el-Bonain.  There  were 
several  coffers  in  her  apartment ; he  sat  down  on  the 
one  in  which  Oueddah  was  hid  and  w'hich  the  slave  had 
described,  saying : “ Give  me  one  of  these  coffers.” 
“ They  are  all  yours,  as  much  as  I myself,”  answered 
Om-el-Bonain.  “ Then,”  continued  Oualid,  “ I would 
like  to  have  the  one  on  which  I am  seated.”  “ There  are 


ARABIA 


22  1 


some  things  in  it  that  only  a woman  needs,”  said  Om-el- 
Bonain.  “ It  is  not  them,  it  is  the  coffer  I desire,”  added 
Oualid.  “ It  is  yours,”  she  answered.  Oualid  had  the 
coffer  taken  away  at  once,  and  summoned  two  slaves, 
whom  he  ordered  to  dig  a pit  in  the  earth  down  to  the 
depth  where  they  would  find  water.  Then  placing  his 
mouth  against  the  coffer : “ I have  heard  something  of 
you,”  he  cried.  “ If  I have  heard  the  truth,  may  all 
trace  of  you  be  lost,  may  all  memory  of  you  be  buried. 
If  they  have  told  me  false  I do  no  harm  by  entombing 
a coffer : it  is  only  the  funeral  of  a box.”  Then  he  had 
the  coffer  pushed  into  the  pit  and  covered  with  the 
stones  and  the  earth  which  had  been  dug  up.  From  that 
time  Om-el-Bonain  never  ceased  to  frequent  this  spot 
and  to  weep,  until  one  day  they  found  her  there  lifeless, 
her  face  pressed  towards  the  earth.*1 

1 These  fragments  are  taken  from  different  chapters  of  the  collection 
which  I have  mentioned.  The  three  marked  by  an  * are  taken  from  the 
last  chapter,  which  is  a very  summary  biography  of  a considerable  number 
of  Arab  martyrs  to  love. 


CHAPTER  LIV  (43) 


OF  THE  EDUCATION  OF  WOMEN 

IN  the  actual  education  of  girls,  which  is  the  fruit 
of  chance  and  the  most  idiotic  pride,  we  allow  their 
most  shining  faculties,  and  those  most  fertile  in  happiness 
for  themselves  and  for  us,  to  lie  fallow.  But  what  man 
is  there,  who  at  least  once  in  his  life  has  not  exclaimed : — 

...  a woman  always  knows  enough 
If  but  her  range  of  understanding  reaches 
To  telling  one  from  t’other,  coat  and  breeches. 

( Les  Femmes  Savantes,  Act  II,  Scene  VII.) 
[Translation  of  C.  H.  Page,  New  York,  1908.] 

At  Paris,  this  is  the  highest  praise  for  a young  girl  of 
a marriageable  age : “ There  is  so  much  that’s  sweet  in 
her  character,  and  she’s  as  gentle  as  a lamb.”  Nothing 
has  more  effect  on  the  idiots  looking  out  for  wives.  But 
see  them  two  years  later,  lunching  tete-a-tete  with  their 
wives  some  dull  day,  hats  on  and  surrounded  by  three 
great  lackeys  ! 

We  have  seen  a law  carried  in  the  United  States,  in 
1818,  which  condemns  to  thirty-four  strokes  of  the  cat 
anyone  teaching  a Virginian  negro  to  read.1  Nothing 
could  be  more  consequent  and  more  reasonable  than  a 
law  of  this  kind. 

Were  the  United  States  of  America  themselves  more 
useful  to  the  motherland  when  they  were  her  slaves  or 
since  they  have  become  her  equals  ? If  the  work  of  a 

1 I regret  to  be  unable  to  find  in  the  Italian  manuscript  the  quotation 
of  an  official  source  for  this  fact ; I hope  it  may  be  found  possible  to 
deny  it. 


222 


OF  THE  EDUCATION  OF  WOMEN  223 

free  man  is  worth  two  or  three  times  that  of  a man 
reduced  to  slavery,  why  should  not  the  same  be  true  of 
that  man’s  thought  ? 

If  we  dared,  we  would  give  girls  the  education  of  a 
slave  ; and  the  proof  of  this  is  that  if  they  know  anything 
useful,  it  is  against  our  wish  we  teach  it  them. 

“ But  they  turn  against  us  the  little  education  which 
unhappily  they  get  hold  of,”  some  husbands  might  say. 
No  doubt ; and  Napoleon  was  also  quite  right  not  to 
give  arms  to  the  National  Guard  ; and  the  reactionaries 
are  also  quite  right  to  proscribe  the  monitorial  system  (44). 
Arm  a man,  and  then  continue  to  oppress  him,  and  you 
will  see  that  he  can  be  so  perverse  as  to  turn  his  arms 
against  you,  as  soon  as  he  can. 

Even  if  it  were  permissible  to  bring  girls  up  like  idiots, 
on  Ave  Marias  and  lewd  songs,  as  they  did  in  the  con- 
vents of  1770,  there  would  still  be  several  little  objec- 
tions : — 

1.  In  the  case  of  the  husband’s  death,  they  are  called 
upon  to  manage  the  young  family. 

2.  As  mothers,  they  give  their  male  children,  the  young 
tyrants  of  the  future,  their  first  education,  that  educa- 
tion which  forms  the  character,  and  accustoms  the  soul 
to  seek  happiness  by  this  route  rather  than  by  that — 
and  the  choice  is  always  an  accomplished  fact  by  four  or 
five. 

3.  In  spite  of  all  our  pride,  the  advice  of  the  inevitable 
partner  of  our  whole  life  has  great  influence  on  those 
domestic  affairs  on  which  our  happiness  depends  so 
particularly  ; for,  in  the  absence  of  passion,  happiness  is 
based  on  the  absence  of  small  everyday  vexations.  Not 
that  we  would  willingly  accord  this  advice  the  least 
influence,  but  she  may  repeat  the  same  thing  to  us  for 
twenty  years  together.  Whose  is  the  spirit  of  such 
Roman  fortitude  as  to  resist  the  same  idea  repeated 
throughout  a whole  lifetime  ? The  world  is  full  of 
husbands  who  let  themselves  be  led,  but  it  is  from  weak- 


ON  LOVE 


224 

ness  and  not  from  a feeling  for  justice  and  equality.  As 
they  yield  perforce,  the  wife  is  always  tempted  to  abuse 
her  power,  and  it  is  sometimes  necessary  to  abuse  power 
in  order  to  keep  it. 

4.  Finally,  in  love,  and  during  a period  which,  in 
southern  countries,  often  comprises  twelve  or  fifteen  years, 
and  those  the  fairest  of  our  life,  our  happiness  is  entirely 
in  the  hands  of  the  woman  we  love.  One  moment  of 
untimely  pride  can  make  us  for  ever  miserable,  and  how 
should  a slave  raised  up  to  a throne  not  be  tempted  to 
abuse  her  power  ? This  is  the  origin  of  women’s  false 
refinement  and  pride.  Of  course,  there  is  nothing  more 
useless  than  these  pleas : men  are  despots  and  we  see 
what  respect  other  despots  show  to  the  wisest  counsels. 
A man  who  is  all-powerful  relishes  only  one  sort  of  advice, 
the  advice  of  those  that  tell  him  to  increase  his  power. 
Where  are  poor  young  girls  to  find  a Quiroga  or  a Riego 
(45)  to  give  the  despots,  who  oppress  them,  and  degrade 
them  the  better  to  oppress  them,  that  salutary  advice, 
whose  just  recompense  are  favours  and  orders  instead  of 
Porlier’s  (45)  gallows  ? 

If  a revolution  of  this  kind  needs  several  centuries,  it 
is  because,  by  a most  unlucky  chance,  all  our  first  ex- 
periences must  necessarily  contradict  the  truth.  Illumin- 
ate a girl’s  mind,  form  her  character,  give  her,  in  short,  a 
good  education  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word — remarking 
sooner  or  later  her  own  superiority  over  other  women,  she 
becomes  a pedant,  that  is  to  say,  the  most  unpleasant  and 
the  most  degraded  creature  that  there  is  in  the  world. 
j There  isn’t  one  of  us  who  wouldn’t  prefer  a servant  to  a 
savante , if  we  had  to  pass  our  life  with  her. 

Plant  a young  tree  in  the  midst  of  a dense  forest, 
deprived  of  air  and  sun  by  the  closeness  of  the  neigh- 
bouring trees : its  leaves  will  be  blighted,  and  it  will  get 
an  overgrown  and  ridiculous  shape — not  its  natural 
shape.  We  ought  to  plant  the  whole  forest  at  once.  W7hat 
woman  is  there  who  is  proud  of  knowing  how  to  read  ? 


OF  THE  EDUCATION  OF  WOMEN  225 

Pedants  have  repeated  to  us  for  two  thousand  years 
that  women  were  more  quick  and  men  more  judicious, 
women  more  remarkable  for  delicacy  of  expression  and 
men  for  stronger  powers  of  concentration.  A Parisian 
simpleton,  who  used  once  upon  a time  to  take  his  walk 
in  the  gardens  of  Versailles,  similarly  concluded  from 
all  he  saw  that  trees  grow  ready  clipped. 

I will  allow  that  little  girls  have  less  physical  strength 
than  little  boys : this  must  be  conclusive  as  regards 
intellect ; for  everyone  knows  that  Voltaire  and  d’Alem- 
bert were  the  first  boxers  of  their  age  ! Everyone  agrees, 
that  a little  girl  of  ten  is  twenty  times  as  refined  as  a 
little  boy  of  the  same  age.  Why,  at  twenty,  is  she  a 
great  idiot,  awkward,  timid,  and  afraid  of  a spider, 
while  the  little  boy  is  a man  of  intellect  ? 

Women  only  learn  the  things  we  do  not  wish  to  teach 
them,  and  only  read  the  lessons  taught  them  by  experi- 
ence of  life.  Hence  the  extreme  disadvantage  it  is  for 
them  to  be  born  in  a very  rich  family  ; instead  of  coming 
into  contact  with  beings  who  behave  naturally  to  them, 
they  find  themselves  surrounded  by  maidservants  and 
governesses,  who  are  already  corrupted  and  blighted  by 
wealth.1  There  is  nothing  so  foolish  as  a prince. 

Young  girls  soon  see  that  they  are  slaves  and  begin  to 
look  about  them  very  early ; they  see  everything,  but 
they  are  too  ignorant  to  see  properly.  A woman  of  thirty 
in  France  has  not  the  acquired  knowledge  of  a small  boy 
of  fifteen,  a woman  of  fifty  has  not  the  reason  of  a man 
of  twenty-five.  Look  at  Madame  de  Sevigne  admiring 
Louis  XIV’s  most  ridiculous  actions.  Look  at  the 
puerility  of  Madame  d’Epinay’s  reasonings.2 

“ Women  ought  to  nurse  and  look  after  their  children.” 
I deny  the  first  proposition,  I allow  the  second.  “ They 
ought,  moreover,  to  keep  their  kitchen  accounts.” — And 

1 Memoirs  of  Madame  de  Stael,  Colie,  Duclos,  the  Margrave  of 
Bayreuth. 

* The  first  volume. 

Q 


226 


ON  LOVE 


so  have  not  time  to  equal  a small  boy  of  fifteen  in  acquired 
knowledge  ! Men  must  be  judges,  bankers,  barristers, 
merchants,  doctors,  clergymen,  etc.,  and  yet  they  find 
time  to  read  Fox’s  speeches  and  the  Lusiad  of  Camoens. 

The  Pekin  magistrate,  who  hastens  at  an  early  hour  to 
the  law  courts  in  order  to  find  the  means  of  imprisoning 
and  ruining,  in  perfect  good  faith,  a poor  journalist  who 
has  incurred  the  displeasure  of  an  Under-Secretary  of 
State,  with  whom  he  had  the  honour  of  dining  the  day 
before,  is  surely  as  busy  as  his  wife,  who  keeps  her 
kitchen  accounts,  gets  stockings  made  for  her  little 
daughter,  sees  her  through  her  dancing  and  piano 
lessons,  receives  a visit  from  the  vicar  of  the  parish  who 
brings  her  the  Quotidienne,  and  then  goes  to  choose  a 
hat  in  the  Rue  de  Richelieu  and  take  a turn  in  the 
Tuileries. 

In  the  midst  of  his  noble  occupations  this  magistrate 
still  finds  time  to  think  of  this  walk  his  wife  is  taking  in 
the  Tuileries,  and,  if  he  were  in  as  good  odour  with  the 
Power  that  rules  the  universe  as  with  that  which  rules 
the  State,  he  would  pray  Heaven  to  grant  women,  for 
their  own  good,  eight  or  ten  hours  more  sleep.  In  the 
present  condition  of  society,  leisure,  which  for  man  is 
the  source  of  all  his  happiness  and  all  his  riches,  is  for 
women  so  far  from  being  an  advantage  as  to  rank  among 
those  baneful  liberties,  from  which  the  worthy  magis- 
trate would  wish  to  help  deliver  us. 


CHAPTER  LV  (43) 

OBJECTIONS  TO  THE  EDUCATION  OF  WOMEN 

“ T">UT  women  are  charged  with  the  petty  labours 
[)  of  the  household.”  The  Colonel  of  my  regi- 
ment, M.  S , has  four  daughters,  brought  up  on  the 

best  principles,  which  means  that  they  work  all  day. 
When  I come,  they  sing  the  music  of  Rossini,  that  I 
brought  them  from  Naples.  For  the  rest,  they  read  the 
Bible  of  Royaumont,  they  learn  what’s  most  foolish  in 
history,  that  is  to  say,  chronological  tables  and  the  verses 
of  Le  Ragois ; they  know  a great  deal  of  geography, 
embroider  admirably — and  I expect  that  each  of  these 
pretty  little  girls  could  earn,  by  her  work,  eight  sous  a 
day.  Taking  three  hundred  days,  that  means  four 
hundred  and  eighty  francs  a year,  which  is  less  than  is 
given  to  one  of  their  masters.  It  is  for  four  hundred 
and  eighty  francs  a year  that  they  lose  for  ever  the  time, 
during  which  it  is  granted  to  the  human  machine  to 
acquire  ideas. 

“ If  women  read  with  pleasure  the  ten  or  twelve  good 
volumes  that  appear  every  year  in  Europe,  they  will  soon 
give  up  the  care  of  their  children.” — ’Tis  as  if  we  feared, 
by  planting  the  shore  of  the  ocean  with  trees,  to  stop  the 
motion  of  the  waves.  It  is  not  in  this  sense  that  education 
is  all-powerful.  Besides,  for  four  hundred  years  the 
same  objection  has  been  offered  to  every  sort  of  edu- 
cation. And  yet  a Parisian  woman  has  more  good 
qualities  in  1820  than  she  ever  had  in  1720,  the  age  of 
Law’s  system  and  the  Regency,  and  at  that  time  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  richest  farmer-general  had  a less  good  education 

227 


228 


ON  LOVE 


than  the  daughter  of  the  pettiest  attorney  gets  to-day. 
Are  her  household  duties  less  well  performed  as  a result  ? 
Certainly  not.  And  why  ? Because  poverty,  illness, 
shame,  instinct,  all  force  her  to  fulfil  them.  It  is  as  if 
you  said  of  an  officer  who  is  becoming  too  sociable,  that 
he  will  forget  how  to  handle  his  horse  ; you  have  to 
remember  that  he’ll  break  his  arm  the  first  time  he’s 
slack  in  the  saddle. 

Knowledge , where  it  produces  any  bad  effects  at  all,  does 
as  much  mischief  to  one  sex  as  to  the  other.  We  shall  never 
lack  vanity,  even  in  the  completest  absence  of  any  reason 
for  having  it — look  at  the  middle  class  in  a small  town. 
Why  not  force  it  at  least  to  repose  on  real  merit,  on  merit 
useful  or  agreeable  to  society  ? 

Demi-fools,  carried  away  by  the  revolution  that  is 
changing  everything  in  France,  began  twenty  years  ago 
to  allow  that  women  are  capable  of  something.  But  they 
must  give  themselves  up  to  occupations  becoming  their 
sex  : educate  flowers,  make  friendships  with  birds,  and  pick 
up  plants.  These  are  called  innocent  amusements. 

These  innocent  pleasures  are  better  than  idleness. 
Well  ! let’s  leave  them  to  stupid  women  ; just  as  we 
leave  to  stupid  men  the  glory  of  composing  verses  for 
the  birthday  of  the  master  of  the  house.  But  do  men 
in  good  faith  really  mean  to  suggest  to  Madame  Roland 
or  to  Mistress  Hutchinson1  that  they  should  spend  their 
time  in  tending  a little  Bengal  rose-bush  ? 

All  such  reasoning  can  be  reduced  to  this : a man  likes 
to  be  able  to  say  of  his  slave  : “ She’s  too  big  a fool  to 
be  a knave.” 

But  owing  to  a certain  law  called  sympathy — a law  of 
nature  which,  in  truth,  vulgar  eyes  never  perceive — the 
defects  in  the  companion  of  your  life  are  not  destructive 
of  your  happiness  by  reason  only  of  the  direct  ill  they 

1 See  the  Memoirs  of  these  admirable  women.  I could  find  other 
names  to  quote,  but  they  are  unknown  to  the  public,  and  moreover  one 
cannot  even  point  to  living  merit. 


OBJECTIONS  TO  EDUCATING  WOMEN  229 

can  occasion  you.  I would  almost  prefer  that  my  wife 
should,  in  a moment  of  anger,  attempt  to  stab  me  once 
a year,  than  that  she  should  welcome  me  every  evening 
with  bad  spirits. 

Finally,  happiness  is  contagious  among  people  w’ho  live 
together. 

Let  your  mistress  have  passed  the  morning,  while  you 
were  on  parade  or  at  the  House  of  Commons,  in  painting 
a rose  after  a masterpiece  of  Redoute,  or  in  reading  a 
volume  of  Shakespeare,  her  pleasure  therein  will  have 
been  equally  innocent.  Only,  with  the  ideas  that  she 
has  got  from  her  rose  she  will  soon  bore  you  on  your 
return,  and,  indeed,  she  will  crave  to  go  out  in  the 
evening  among  people  to  seek  sensations  a little  more 
lively.  Suppose,  on  the  contrary,  she  has  read  Shake- 
speare, she  is  as  tired  as  you  are,  she  has  had  as  much 
pleasure,  and  she  will  be  happier  to  give  you  her  arm  for 
a solitary  walk  in  the  Bois  de  Vincennes  than  to  appear 
at  the  smartest  party.  The  pleasures  of  the  fashionable 
world  are  not  meant  for  happy  women. 

Women  have,  of  course,  all  ignorant  men  for  enemies  to 
their  instruction.  To-day  they  spend  their  time  with 
them,  they  make  love  to  them  and  are  well  received  by 
them  ; what  would  become  of  them  if  women  began  to 
get  tired  of  Boston  ? When  we  return  from  America  or 
the  West  Indies  with  a tanned  skin  and  manners  that  for 
six  months  remain  somewhat  coarse,  how  would  these 
fellows  answer  our  stories,  if  they  had  not  this  phrase  : 
“ As  for  us,  the  women  are  on  our  side.  While  you  were 
at  New  York  the  colour  of  tilburies  has  changed  ; it’s 
grey-black  that’s  fashionable  at  present.”  And  we  listen 
attentively,  for  such  knowledge  is  useful.  Such  and 
such  a pretty  woman  will  not  look  at  us  if  our  carriage 
is  in  bad  taste. 

These  same  fools,  who  think  themselves  obliged,  in 
virtue  of  the  pre-eminence  of  their  sex,  to  have  more 
knowledge  than  women,  would  be  ruined  past  all  hope,  if 


23° 


ON  LOVE 


women  had  the  audacity  to  learn  something.  A fool 
of  thirty  says  to  himself,  as  he  looks  at  some  little  girls 
of  twelve  at  the  country  house  of  one  of  his  friends : 
“ It’s  in  their  company  that  I shall  spend  my  life  ten 
years  from  now.”  We  can  imagine  his  exclamations  and 
his  terror,  if  he  saw  them  studying  something  useful. 

Instead  of  the  society  and  conversation  of  effeminate 
men,  an  educated  woman,  if  she  has  acquired  ideas  with- 
out losing  the  graces  of  her  sex,  can  always  be  sure  of 
finding  among  the  most  distinguished  men  of  her  age  a 
consideration  verging  on  enthusiasm. 

“ Women  would  become  the  rivals  instead  of  the  com- 
panions of  man.”  Yes,  as  soon  as  you  have  suppressed 
love  by  edict.  While  we  are  waiting  for  this  fine  law, 
love  will  redouble  its  charms  and  its  ecstasy.  These  are 
the  plain  facts : the  basis  on  which  crystallisation  rests 
will  be  widened  ; man  will  be  able  to  take  pleasure  in  all 
his  ideas  in  company  of  the  woman  he  loves ; nature  in 
all  its  entirety  will  in  their  eyes  receive  new  charms ; 
and  as  ideas  always  reflect  some  of  the  refinements  of 
character,  they  will  understand  each  other  better  and 
will  be  guilty  of  fewer  imprudent  acts — love  will  be  less 
blind  and  will  produce  less  unhappiness. 

The  desire  of  pleasing  secures  all  that  delicacy  and 
reserve  which  are  of  such  inestimable  value  to  women 
from  the  influence  of  any  scheme  of  education.  ’Tis  as 
though  you  feared  teaching  the  nightingales  not  to  sing 
in  the  spring-time. 

The  graces  of  women  do  not  depend  on  their  ignorance; 
look  at  the  worthy  spouses  of  our  village  bourgeois,  look 
at  the  wives  of  the  opulent  merchants  in  England. 
Affectation  is  a kind  of  pedantry  ; for  I call  pedantry 
the  affectation  of  letting  myself  talk  out  of  season  of  a 
dress  by  Leroy  or  a novel  by  Romagnesi,  just  as  much  as 
the  affectation  of  quoting  Fra  Paolo  (46)  and  the  Council 
of  Trent  a propos  of  a discussion  on  our  own  mild  mis- 
sionaries. It  is  the  pedantry  of  dress  and  good  form,  it 


OBJECTIONS  TO  EDUCATING  WOMEN  231 

is  the  necessity  of  saying  exactly  the  conventional  phrase 
about  Rossini,  which  kills  the  graces  of  Parisian  women. 
Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  the  terrible  effects  of  this  con- 
tagious malady,  is  it  not  in  Paris  that  exist  the  most 
delightful  women  in  France  ? Would  not  the  reason  be 
that  chance  filled  their  heads  with  the  most  just  and 
interesting  ideas  ? Well,  it  is  these  very  ideas  that  I 
expect  from  books.  I shall  not,  of  course,  suggest  that 
they  read  Grotius  of  Puffendorf,  now  that  we  have 
Tracy’s  (47)  commentary  on  Montesquieu. 

Woman’s  delicacy  depends  on  the  hazardous  position 
in  which  she  finds  herself  so  early  placed,  on  the  necessity 
of  spending  her  life  in  the  midst  of  cruel  and  fascinating 
enemies. 

There  are , perhaps , fifty  thousand  females  in  Great 
Britain  who  are  exempted  by  circumstances  from  all 
necessary  labour  : but  without  work  there  is  no  happiness. 
Passion  forces  itself  to  work,  and  to  work  of  an  exceed- 
ingly rough  kind — work  that  employs  the  whole  activity 
of  one’s  being. 

A woman  with  four  children  and  ten  thousand  francs 
income  works  by  making  stockings  or  a frock  for  her 
daughter.  But  it  cannot  be  allowed  that  a woman 
who  has  her  own  carriage  is  working  when  she  does 
her  embroidery  or  a piece  of  tapestry.  Apart  from 
some  faint  glow  of  vanity,  she  cannot  possibly  have 
any  interest  in  what  she  is  doing.  She  does  not 
work. 

And  thus  her  happiness  runs  a grave  risk. 

And  what  is  more,  so  does  the  happiness  of  her  lord 
and  master,  for  a woman  whose  heart  for  two  months 
has  been  enlivened  by  no  other  interest  than  that  of 
her  needlework,  may  be  so  insolent  as  to  imagine  that 
gallant-love,  vanity-love,  or,  in  fine,  even  physical  love, 
is  a very  great  happiness  in  comparison  with  her  habitual 
condition. 

“ A woman  ought  not  to  make  people  speak  about 


232 


ON  LOVE 


her.”  To  which  I answer  once  more  : “ Is  any  woman 
specially  mentioned  as  being  able  to  read  ? ” 

And  what  is  to  prevent  women,  while  awaiting  a 
revolution  in  their  destiny,  from  hiding  a study  which 
forms  their  habitual  occupation  and  furnishes  them 
every  day  with  an  honourable  share  of  happiness.  I will 
reveal  a secret  to  them  by  the  way.  When  you  have 
given  yourself  a task — for  example,  to  get  a clear  idea 
about  the  conspiracy  of  Fiescho  (48),  at  Genoa  in  1547 — 
the  most  insipid  book  becomes  interesting.  The  same  is 
true,  in  love,  of  meeting  someone  quite  indifferent,  who 
has  just  seen  the  person  whom  you  love.  This  interest 
is  doubled  every  month,  until  you  give  up  the  conspiracy 
of  Fiescho. 

“ The  true  theatre  for  a woman  is  the  sick-chamber .” 
But  you  must  be  careful  to  secure  that  the  divine  good- 
ness redoubles  the  frequency  of  illnesses,  in  order  to 
give  occupation  to  our  women.  This  is  arguing  from 
the  exceptional. 

Moreover,  I maintain  that  a woman  ought  to  spend 
three  or  four  hours  of  leisure  every  day,  just  as  men  of 
sense  spend  their  hours  of  leisure. 

A young  mother,  whose  little  son  has  the  measles, 
could  not,  even  if  she  would,  find  pleasure  in  reading 
Volney’s  Travels  in  Syria,  any  more  than  her  husband,  a 
rich  banker,  could  get  pleasure  out  of  meditating  on 
Malthus  in  the  midst  of  bankruptcy. 

There  is  one,  and  only  one,  way  for  rich  women  to 
distinguish  themselves  from  the  vulgar : moral  supe- 
riority. For  in  this  there  is  a natural  distinction  of 
feeling.1 

“ We  do  not  wish  a lady  to  write  books.”  No, 
but  does  giving  your  daughter  a singing-master  en- 
gage you  to  make  her  into  an  opera-singer  ? If  you 

1 See  Mistress  Hutchinson  refusing  to  be  of  use  to  her  family  and  her 
husband,  whom  she  adored,  by  betraying  certain  of  the  regicides  to  the 
ministers  of  the  perjured  Charles  II.  (Vol.  II,  p.  284.) 


OBJECTIONS  TO  EDUCATING  WOMEN  233 

like,  I’ll  say  that  a woman  ought  only  to  write,  like 
Madame  de  Stael  (de  Launay),  posthumous  works  to  be 
published  after  her  death.  For  a woman  of  less  than 
fifty  to  publish  is  to  risk  her  happiness  in  the  most 
terrible  lottery  : if  she  has  the  good  fortune  to  have  a 
lover,  she  will  begin  by  losing  him. 

I know  but  one  exception : it  is  that  of  a woman  who 
writes  books  in  order  to  keep  or  bring  up  her  family. 
In  that  case  she  ought  always  to  confine  herself  to  their 
money-value  when  talking  of  her  own  works,  and  say, 
for  example,  to  a cavalry  major  : “ Your  rank  gives  you 
four  thousand  francs  a year,  and  I,  with  my  two  transla- 
tions from  the  English,  was  able  last  year  to  devote  an 
extra  three  thousand  five  hundred  francs  to  the  education 
of  my  two  boys.” 

Otherwise,  a woman  should  publish  as  Baron  d’Hol- 
bach  or  Madame  de  la  Fayette  did  ; their  best  friends 
knew  nothing  of  it.  To  print  a book  can  only  be  without 
inconvenience  for  a courtesan ; the  vulgar,  who  can 
despise  her  at  their  will  for  her  condition,  will  exalt  her 
to  the  heavens  for  her  talent,  and  even  make  a cult  of  it. 

Many  men  in  France,  among  those  who  have  an  income 
of  six  thousand  francs,  find  their  habitual  source  of  happi- 
ness in  literature,  without  thinking  of  publishing  any- 
thing; to  read  a good  book  is  for  them  one  of  the  greatest 
pleasures.  At  the  end  of  ten  years  they  find  that  their 
mind  is  enlarged  twofold,  and  no  one  will  deny  that,  in 
general,  the  larger  the  mind  the  fewer  will  be  its  passions 
incompatible  with  the  happiness  of  others.1  I don’t  sup- 
pose anyone  will  still  deny  that  the  sons  of  a woman  who 
reads  Gibbon  and  Schiller  will  have  more  genius  than 
the  children  of  one  who  tells  her  beads  and  reads  Madame 
de  Genlis. 

A young  barrister,  a merchant,  an  engineer  can  be 

1 It  is  this  that  gives  me  great  hopes  for  the  rising  generation  among 
the  privileged  classes.  I also  hope  that  any  husbands  who  read  this 
chapter  will  be  milder  despots  for  three  days. 


ON  LOVE 


234 

launched  on  life  without  any  education  ; they  pick  it 
up  themselves  every  day  by  practising  their  profession. 
But  what  resources  have  their  wives  for  acquiring 
estimable  or  necessary  qualities  ? Hidden  in  the  solitude 
of  their  household,  for  them  the  great  book  of  life 
necessarily  remains  shut.  They  spend  always  in  the  same 
way,  after  discussing  the  accounts  with  their  cook,  the 
three  louis  they  get  every  Monday  from  their  husbands. 

I say  this  in  the  interest  of  the  tyrant : the  least  of 
men,  if  he  is  twenty  and  has  nice  rosy  cheeks,  is  a danger 
to  a woman  with  no  knowledge,  because  she  is  wholly 
a creature  of  instinct.  In  the  eyes  of  a woman  of  in- 
tellect he  will  produce  as  much  effect  as  a handsome 

The  amusing  thing  in  present-day  education  is  that 
you  teach  young  girls  nothing  that  they  won’t  have  to 
forget  as  soon  as  they  are  married.  It  needs  four  hours 
a day,  for  six  years,  to  learn  to  play  the  harp  well ; to 
paint  well  in  miniature  or  water-colours  needs  half  that 
time.  Most  young  girls  do  not  attain  even  to  a tolerable 
mediocrity — hence  the  very  true  saying : “ Amateur 
means  smatterer.”1 

And  even  supposing  a young  girl  has  some  talent  ; 
three  years  after  she  is  married  she  won’t  take  up  her 
harp  or  her  brushes  once  a month.  These  objects  of  so 
much  study  now  only  bore  her — unless  chance  has  given 
her  the  soul  of  an  artist,  and  this  is  always  a rarity  and 
scarcely  helpful  in  the  management  of  a household. 

And  thus  under  the  vain  pretext  of  decency  you 
teach  young  girls  nothing  that  can  give  them  guidance  in 
the  circumstances  they  will  encounter  in  their  lives. 
You  do  more — you  hide  and  deny  these  circumstances 
in  order  to  add  to  their  strength,  through  the  effect 
(i)  of  surprise,  and  (ii)  of  mistrust  ; for  education,  once 

1 The  contrary  of  this  proverb  is  true  in  Italy,  where  the  loveliest 
voices  are  heard  among  amateurs  who  have  no  connection  with  the 
theatre. 


OBJECTIONS  TO  EDUCATING  WOMEN  235 

found  deceitful,  must  bring  mistrust  on  education  as  a 
whole.1  I maintain  that  one  ought  to  talk  of  love  to 
girls  who  have  been  well  brought  up.  Who  will  dare 
suggest  in  good  faith  that,  in  the  actual  state  of  our 
manners,  girls  of  sixteen  do  not  know  of  the  existence  of 
love  ? From  whom  do  they  get  this  idea  so  important 
and  so  difficult  to  give  properly  ? Think  of  Julie 
d’fhtanges  deploring  the  knowledge  that  she  owes  to  la 
Chaillot,  one  of  the  maidservants.  One  must  thank 
Rousseau  for  having  dared  be  a true  painter  in  an  age  of 
false  decency. 

The  present-day  education  of  women  being  perhaps 
the  most  delightful  absurdity  in  modern  Europe,  strictly 
speaking  the  less  education  they  have,  the  better  they 
are.2  It  is  for  this  reason  perhaps  that  in  Italy  and 
Spain  they  are  so  superior  to  the  men,  and  I will  even 
say  so  superior  to  the  women  of  other  countries. 

1 The  education  given  to  Madame  d’Epinay.  (Memoirs,  Vol.  I.) 

2 I make  an  exception  as  regards  education  in  manners : a woman 
enters  a drawing-room  better  in  Rue  Verte  than  in  Rue  St.  Martin. 


CHAPTER  LVI  (43) 


OBJECTIONS  TO  THE  EDUCATION  OF  WOMEN 

(1 continued) 

IN  France  all  our  ideas  about  women  are  got  from  a 
twopence-halfpenny  catechism.  The  delightful  part  of 
it  is  that  many  people,  who  would  not  allow  the  authority 
of  this  book  to  regulate  a matter  of  fifty  francs,  foolishly 
follow  it  word  for  word  in  that  which  bears  most  nearly 
on  their  happiness.  Such  is  the  vanity  of  nineteenth- 
century  ways  ! 

There  must  be  no  divorce  because  marriage  is  a mystery 
— and  what  mystery  ? The  emblem  of  the  union  of 
Jesus  Christ  with  the  Church.  And  what  had  become  of 
this  mystery,  if  the  Church  had  been  given  a name  of 
the  masculine  gender  .?1  But  let  us  pass  over  prejudices 
already  giving  way,2  and  let  us  merely  observe  this  singu- 

1 Tu  es  Petrus,  and  super  hanc  petram 

Aidificabo  Ecclesiam  meam. 

(See  M.  de  Potter,  Histone  de  I’Eglise .) 

2 Religion  is  a matter  between  each  man  and  the  Divinity.  By  what 
right  do  you  come  and  place  yourself  between  my  God  and  me  ? I 
accept  a proctor  appointed  by  the  social  contract  only  in  those  matters 
which  I cannot  do  myself. 

Why  should  not  a Frenchman  pay  his  priest  like  his  baker  ? If  we 
have  good  bread  in  Paris,  the  reason  is  that  the  State  has  not  yet  ven- 
tured to  declare  the  provision  of  bread  gratuitous  and  put  all  the  bakers 
at  the  charge  of  the  Treasury. 

In  the  United  States  every  man  pays  his  own  priest.  These  gentry 
are  compelled  to  have  some  merit,  and  my  neighbour  does  not  see  good 
to  make  his  happiness  depend  on  submitting  me  to  his  priest.  (Letters 
of  Birkbeck.) 

What  will  happen  if  I have  the  conviction,  as  our  fathers  did,  that 

236 


OBJECTIONS  TO  EDUCATING  WOMEN  237 

lar  spectacle  : the  root  of  the  tree  sapped  by  the  axe 
of  ridicule,  but  the  branches  continuing  to  flower. 

Now  to  return  to  the  observation  of  facts  and  their 
consequences. 

In  both  sexes  it  is  on  the  manner  in  which  youth  has 
been  employed  that  depends  the  fate  of  extreme  old 
age — this  is  true  for  women  earlier  than  for  men.  How 
is  a woman  of  forty-five  received  in  society  ? Severely, 
or  more  often  in  a way  that  is  below  her  dignity.  Women 
are  flattered  at  twenty  and  abandoned  at  forty. 

A woman  of  forty-five  is  of  importance  only  by  reason 
of  her  children  or  her  lover. 

A mother  who  excels  in  the  fine  arts  can  communicate 
her  talent  to  her  son  only  in  the  extremely  rare  case, 
where  he  has  received  from  nature  precisely  the  soul  for 
this  talent.  But  a mother  of  intellect  and  culture  will 
give  her  young  son  a grasp  not  only  of  all  merely  agree- 
able talents,  but  also  of  all  talents  that  are  useful  to 
man  in  society  ; and  he  will  be  able  to  make  his  own 
choice.  The  barbarism  of  the  Turks  depends  in  great 
part  on  the  state  of  moral  degradation  among  the 
beautiful  Georgians.  Two  young  men  born  at  Paris 
owe  to  their  mothers  the  incontestable  superiority  that 
they  show  at  sixteen  over  the  young  provincials  of  their 
age.  It  is  from  sixteen  to  twenty-five  that  the  luck 
turns. 

The  men  who  invented  gunpowder,  printing,  the  art 
of  weaving,  contribute  every  day  to  our  happiness,  and 
the  same  is  true  of  the  Montesquieus,  the  Racines  and  the 
La  Fontaines.  Now  the  number  of  geniuses  produced 
by  a nation  is  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  men 
receiving  sufficient  culture,1  and  there  is  nothing  to  prove 
to  me  that  my  bootmaker  has  not  the  soul  to  write  like 

my  priest  is  the  intimate  ally  of  my  bishop  ? Without  a Luther,  there 
will  be  no  more  Catholicism  in  France  in  1850.  That  religion  could 
only  be  saved  in  1820  by  M.  Gregoire  (49)  : see  how  he  is  treated. 

1 See  the  Generals  of  1795. 


ON  LOVE 


238 

Corneille.  He  wants  the  education  necessary  to  develop 
his  feelings  and  teach  him  to  communicate  them  to  the 
public.1 

Owing  to  the  present  system  of  girls’  education,  all 
geniuses  who  are  born  women  are  lost  to  the  public  good. 
So  soon  as  chance  gives  them  the  means  of  displaying 
themselves,  you  see  them  attain  to  talents  the  most  diffi- 
cult, to  acquire.  In  our  own  days  you  see  a Catherine  II, 
who  had  no  other  education  but  danger  and  . . . ; 
a Madame  Roland  ; an  Alessandra  Mari,  who  raised  a 
regiment  in  Arezzo  and  sent  it  against  the  French  ; a 
Caroline,  Queen  of  Naples,  who  knew  how  to  put  a stop 
to  the  contagion  of  liberalism  better  than  all  our  Castle- 
reaghs  and  our  Pitts.  As  for  what  stands  in  the  way  of 
women’s  superiority  in  works  of  art,  see  the  chapter  on 
Modesty,  article  9.  What  might  Miss  Edgeworth  not 
have  done,  if  the  circumspection  necessary  to  a young 
English  girl  had  not  forced  her  at  the  outset  of  her 
career  to  carry  the  pulpit  into  her  novel  ? 

What  man  is  there,  in  love  or  in  marriage,  who  has  the 
good  fortune  to  be  able  to  communicate  his  thoughts, 
just  as  they  occur  to  him,  to  the  woman  with  whom  he 
passes  his  life  ? He  may  find  a good  heart  that  will  share 
his  sorrows,  but  he  is  always  obliged  to  turn  his  thoughts 
into  small  change  if  he  wishes  to  be  understood,  and  it 
would  be  ridiculous  to  expect  reasonable  counsel  from 
an  intellect  that  has  need  of  such  a method  in  order  to 
seize  the  facts.  The  most  perfect  woman,  according 
to  the  ideas  of  present-day  education,  leaves  her  partner 
isolated  amid  the  dangers  of  life  and  soon  runs  the  risk  of 
wearying  him. 

1 As  regards  the  arts,  here  we  have  the  great  defect  of  a reasonable 
government  as  well  as  the  sole  reasonable  eulogy  of  monarchy  a la  Louis 
XIV.  Look  at  the  literary  sterility  of  America.  Not  a single  romance 
like  those  of  Robert  Burns  or  the  Spaniards  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
See  the  admirable  romances  of  the  modern  Greeks,  those  of  the  Spaniards 
and  Danes  of  the  thirteenth  century,  and  still  better,  the  Arabic  poetry 
of  the  seventh  century. 


OBJECTIONS  TO  EDUCATING  WOMEN  239 

What  an  excellent  counsellor  would  a man  not  find  in 
a wife,  if  only  she  could  think — a counsellor,  after  all, 
whose  interests,  apart  from  one  single  object,  and  one 
which  does  not  last  beyond  the  morning  of  life,  are 
exactly  identical  with  his  own  ! 

One  of  the  finest  prerogatives  of  the  mind  is  that  it 
provides  old  age  with  consideration.  See  how  the  arrival 
of  Voltaire  in  Paris  makes  the  Royal  majesty  pale.  But 
poor  women  ! so  soon  as  they  have  no  longer  the  bril- 
liance of  youth,  their  one  sad  happiness  is  to  be  able  to 
delude  themselves  on  the  part  they  take  in  society. 

The  ruins  of  youthful  talents  become  merely  ridiculous, 
and  it  were  a happiness  for  our  women,  such  as  they 
actually  are,  to  die  at  fifty.  As  for  a higher  morality — 
the  clearer  the  mind,  the  surer  the  conviction  that  justice 
is  the  only  road  to  happiness.  Genius  is  a power  ; but 
still  more  is  it  a torch,  to  light  the  way  to  the  great 
art  of  being  happy. 

Most  men  have  a moment  in  their  life  when  they  are 
capable  of  great  things — that  moment  when  nothing 
seems  impossible  to  them.  The  ignorance  of  women 
causes  this  magnificent  chance  to  be  lost  to  the  human 
race.  Love,  nowadays,  at  the  very  most  will  make  a 
man  a good  horseman  or  teach  him  to  choose  his  tailor. 

I have  no  time  to  defend  myself  against  the  advances 
of  criticism.  If  my  word  could  set  up  systems,  I should 
give  girls,  as  far  as  possible,  exactly  the  same  education 
as  boys.  As  I have  no  intention  of  writing  a book  about 
everything  and  nothing,  I shall  be  excused  from  explain- 
ing in  what  regards  the  present  education  of  men  is 
absurd.  But  taking  it  such  as  it  is  (they  are  not  taught 
the  two  premier  sciences,  logic  and  ethics),  it  is  better, 
I say,  to  give  this  education  to  girls  than  merely  to  teach 
them  to  play  the  piano,  to  paint  in  water-colours  and  to 
do  needlework. 

Teach  girls,  therefore,  reading,  writing  and  arithmetic 
by  the  monitorial  (44)  system  in  the  central  convent 


ON  LOVE 


240 

schools,  in  which  the  presence  of  an y man,  except  the 
masters,  should  be  severely  punished.  The  great  ad- 
vantage of  bringing  children  together  is  that,  however 
narrow  the  masters  may  be,  in  spite  of  them  the  children 
learn  from  their  little  comrades  the  art  of  living  in  the 
world  and  of  managing  conflicting  interests.  A sensible 
master  would  explain  their  little  quarrels  and  friendships 
to  the  children,  and  begin  his  course  of  ethics  in  this 
way  rather  than  with  the  story  of  the  Golden  Calf.1 

No  doubt  some  years  hence  the  monitorial  system  will 
be  applied  to  everything  that  is  learnt  ; but,  taking 
things  as  they  actually  are,  I would  have  girls  learn  Latin 
like  boys.  Latin  is  a good  subject  because  it  accustoms 
one  to  be  bored ; with  Latin  should  go  history,  mathe- 
matics, a knowledge  of  the  plants  useful  as  nourishment 
or  medicine  ; then  logic  and  the  moral  sciences,  etc. 
Dancing,  music  and  drawing  ought  to  begin  at  five. 

At  sixteen  a girl  ought  to  think  about  finding  a husband, 
and  get  from  her  mother  right  ideas  on  love,  marriage, 
and  the  want  of  honesty  that  exists  among  men.2 

1 My  dear  pupil,  your  father  loves  you  ; this  makes  him  give  me 
forty  francs  a month  to  teach  you  mathematics,  drawing — in  a word, 
how  to  earn  your  living.  If  you  were  cold,  because  your  overcoat  was 
too  small,  your  father  would  be  unhappy.  He  would  be  unhappy  because 
he  would  sympathise,  etc.,  etc.  But  when  you  are  eighteen,  you  yourself 
will  have  to  earn  the  money  needed  to  buy  your  overcoat.  Your  father, 
I have  heard,  has  an  income  of  twenty-five  thousand  francs,  but  there 
are  four  of  you  children ; therefore  you  will  have  to  accustom  yourself 
to  do  without  the  carriage  you  enjoy  while  you  live  with  your  father, 
etc.,  etc. 

2 Yesterday  evening  I listened  to  two  charming  little  girls  of  four 
years  old  singing  very  gay  love-songs  in  a swing  which  I was  pushing. 
The  maidservants  teach  them  these  songs  and  their  mother  tells  them 
that  “ love  ” and  “ lover  ” are  words  without  any  meaning. 


CHAPTER  LVI 


(Part  II) 

ON  MARRIAGE 

THE  fidelity  of  married  women,  where  love  is  absent, 
is  probably  something  contrary  to  nature.1 
Men  have  attempted  to  obtain  this  unnatural  result 
by  the  fear  of  hell  and  sentiments  of  religion  ; the  ex- 
ample of  Spain  and  Italy  shows  how  far  they  have 
succeeded. 

In  France  they  have  attempted  to  obtain  it  by  public 
opinion — the  one  dyke  capable  of  resistance,  yet  it  has 
been  badly  built.  It  is  absurd  to  tell  a young  girl : “ You 
must  be  faithful  to  the  husband  of  your  choice,”  and 
then  to  marry  her  by  force  to  a boring  old  dotard.2 

1 Not  probably — but  certainly.  With  love  there,  one  has  no  taste 
for  any  water  but  that  of  the  beloved  fount.  So  far  fidelity  is  natural. 

In  the  case  of  marriage  without  love,  in  less  than  two  years  the  water  of 
this  fountain  becomes  bitter.  Now  the  desire  for  water  always  exists  in 
nature.  Habits  may  conquer  nature,  but  only  when  it  can  be  conquered  in 
an  instant : the  Indian  wife  who  burns  herself  (October  21st,  1821),  after 
the  death  of  the  old  husband  whom  she  hated  ; the  European  girl  who 
barbarously  murders  the  innocent  child  to  whom  she  has  just  given  life. 
But  for  a very  high  wall  the  monks  would  soon  leave  the  monastery. 

2 Even  down  to  details,  with  us  everything  that  regards  the  education 
of  women  is  comic.  For  example,  in  1820,  under  the  rule  of  these  very 
nobles  who  have  proscribed  divorce,  the  Home  Office  sends  to  the  town 
of  Laon  a bust  and  a statue  of  Gabrielle  d’Estrees.  The  statue  is  to  be 
set  up  in  the  public  square,  apparently  to  spread  love  of  the  Bourbons 
among  the  young  girls  and  to  exhort  them,  in  case  of  need,  not  to  be 
cruel  to  amorous  kings  and  to  give  scions  to  this  illustrious  family. 

But,  in  return,  the  same  office  refuses  the  town  of  Laon  a bust  of 
Marshal  Serrurier,  a brave  man  who  was  no  gallant,  and  moreover  had 

241 


R 


242 


ON  LOVE 


“ But  girls  are  pleased  to  get  married.”  Because, 
under  the  narrow  system  of  present-day  education,  the 
slavery  that  they  undergo  in  their  mother’s  house  is 
intolerably  tedious ; further,  they  lack  enlightenment  ; 
and,  lastly,  there  are  the  demands  of  nature.  There  is 
but  one  way  to  obtain  more  fidelity  among  married 
women  : it  is  to  give  freedom  to  girls  and  divorce  to 
married  people. 

A woman  always  loses  the  fairest  days  of  her  youth  in 
her  first  marriage,  and  by  divorce  she  gives  fools  the 
chance  of  talking  against  her. 

Young  women  who  have  plenty  of  lovers  have  nothing 
to  get  from  divorce,  and  women  of  a certain  age,  who 
have  already  had  them,  hope  to  repair  their  reputation — 
in  France  they  always  succeed  in  doing  so — by  showing 
themselves  extremely  severe  against  the  errors  which 
have  left  them  behind.  It  is  generally  some  wretched 
young  woman,  virtuous  and  desperately  in  love,  who 
seeks  a divorce,  and  gets  her  good  name  blackened  at 
the  hands  of  women  who  have  had  fifty  different  men. 

been  so  vulgar  as  to  begin  his  career  by  the  trade  of  private  soldier.  (Speech 
of  General  Foy,  Courrier  of  17th  June,  1820.  Dulaure,  in  his  curious 
History  of  Paris,  Amours  of  Henry  IV.) 


CHAPTER  LVII 


OF  VIRTUE,  SO  CALLED 

MYSELF,  I honour  with  the  name  of  virtue  the 
habit  of  doing  painful  actions  which  are  of  use 
to  others. 

St.  Simon  Stylites,  who  sits  twenty-two  years  on  the 
top  of  a column  beating  himself  with  a strap,  is  in  my 
eyes,  I confess,  not  at  all  virtuous  ; and  it  is  this  that 
gives  this  essay  a tone  only  too  unprincipled. 

I esteem  not  a bit  more  the  Chartreux  monk  who  eats 
nothing  but  fish  and  allows  himself  to  talk  only  on 
Thursday.  I own  I prefer  General  Carnot,  who,  at  an 
advanced  age,  puts  up  with  the  rigours  of  exile  in  a little 
northern  town  rather  than  do  a base  action. 

I have  some  hope  that  this  extremely  vulgar  declara- 
tion will  lead  the  reader  to  skip  the  rest  of  this  chapter. 

This  morning,  a holiday,  at  Pesaro  (May  7th,  1819), 
being  obliged  to  go  to  Mass,  I got  hold  of  a Missal  and 
fell  upon  these  words : — 

Joanna,  Alphonsi  quinti  Lusitaniae  regis  filia,  tanta  divini 
amoris  flamma  praeventa  fuit,  ut  ab  ipsa  pueritia  rerum  caducarum 
pertaesa,  solo  coelestis  patriae  desiderio  flagraret. 

The  virtue  so  touchingly  preached  by  the  very  beauti- 
ful words  of  the  Genie  du  Christianisme  (50)  is  thus 
reduced  to  not  eating  truffles  for  fear  of  a stomach-ache. 
It  is  quite  a reasonable  calculation,  if  you  believe  in  hell ; 
but  it  is  a self-interested  calculation,  the  most  personal 
and  prosaic  possible.  That  philosophic  virtue,  which  so 
well  explains  the  return  of  Regulus  to  Carthage,  and 
which  was  responsible  for  some  similar  incidents  in  our 

243 


244  ON  LOVE 

own  Revolution,1  proves,  on  the  contrary,  generosity  of 
soul. 

It  is  merely  in  order  not  to  be  burned  in  the  next 
world,  in  a great  caldron  of  boiling  oil,  that  Madame 
de  Tourvel  resists  Valmont.  I cannot  imagine  how  the 
idea,  with  all  its  ignominy,  of  being  the  rival  of  a caldron 
of  boiling  oil  does  not  drive  Valmont  away. 

How  much  more  touching  is  Julie  d’fhtanges,  respecting 
her  vows  and  the  happiness  of  M.  de  Wolmar. 

What  I say  of  Madame  de  Tourvel,  I find  applicable 
to  the  lofty  virtue  of  Mistress  Hutchinson.  What  a soul 
did  Puritanism  steal  away  from  love  ! 

One  of  the  oddest  peculiarities  of  this  world  is  that 
men  always  think  they  know  whatever  it  is  clearly 
necessary  for  them  to  know.  Hear  them  talk  about 
politics,  that  very  complicated  science  ; hear  them  talk  of 
marriage  and  morals. 

1 Memoirs  of  Madame  Roland.  M.  Grangeneuve,  who  goes  out  for 
a walk  at  eight  o’clock  in  a certain  street,  in  order  to  be  killed  by  the 
Capuchin  Chabot.  A death  was  thought  expedient  in  the  cause  of  liberty. 


CHAPTER  LVIII 


STATE  OF  EUROPE  WITH  REGARD  TO  MARRIAGE 

SO  far  we  have  only  treated  the  question  of  marriage 
according  to  theory  ;x  we  are  now  to  treat  it  accord- 
ing to  the  facts. 

Which  of  all  countries  is  that  in  which  there  are  the 
most  happy  marriages  ? Without  dispute,  Protestant 
Germany  (52). 

I extract  the  following  fragment  from  the  diary  of 
Captain  Salviati,  without  changing  a single  word  in  it : — 

“ Halberstadt,  June  23 rd,  1807.  . . . Nevertheless, 
M.  de  Biilow  is  absolutely  and  openly  in  love  with  Made- 
moiselle de  Feltheim  ; he  follows  her  about  everywhere, 
always,  talks  to  her  unceasingly,  and  very  often  keeps  her 
yards  away  from  us.  Such  open  marks  of  affection  shock 
society,  break  it  up — and  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine  would 
pass  for  the  height  of  indecency.  The  Germans  think 
much  less  than  we  do  about  what  breaks  up  society ; 
indecency  is  little  more  than  a conventional  evil.  For  five 
years  M.  de  Biilow  has  been  paying  court  in  this  way  to 
Mina,  whom  he  has  been  unable  to  marry  owing  to  the 
war.  All  the  young  ladies  in  society  have  their  lover, 
and  he  is  known  to  everyone.  Among  all  the  German 
acquaintances  of  my  friend  M.  de  Mermann  (53)  there 
is  not  a single  one  who  has  not  married  for  love. 

“ Mermann,  his  brother  George,  M.  de  Voigt,  M.  de 

1 The  author  had  read  a chapter  called  “ Dell’  amore,”  in  the  Italian 
translation  of  the  Ideologie  of  M.  de  Tracy  (51).  In  that  chapter  the 
reader  will  find  ideas  incomparable,  in  philosophical  importance,  with 
anything  he  can  find  here. 


245 


2 46  ON  LOVE 

Lazing,  etc.  He  has  just  given  me  the  names  of  a dozen 
of  them. 

“ The  open  and  passionate  way  in  which  these  lovers 
pay  their  court  to  their  mistresses  would  be  the  height 
of  indecency,  absurdity  and  shame  in  France. 

“ Mermann  told  me  this  evening,  as  we  were  returning 
from  the  Chasseur  Vert , that,  among  all  the  women  of 
his  very  numerous  family,  he  did  not  suppose  there  was  a 
single  one  who  had  deceived  her  husband.  Allowing 
that  he  is1  wrong  about  half  of  them,  it  is  still  a singular 
country. 

“ His  shady  proposal  to  his  sister-in-law,  Madame  de 
Munichow,  whose  family  is  about  to  die  out  for  want  of 
male  heirs  and  its  very  considerable  possessions  revert  to 
the  crown,  coldly  received,  but  merely  with  : ‘ Let’s  hear 
no  more  of  that.’ 

“ He  tells  the  divine  Philippine  (who  has  just  obtained 
a divorce  from  her  husband,  who  only  wanted  to  sell  her 
to  his  Sovereign)  something  about  it  in  very  covert  terms. 
LTfeigned  indignation,  toned  down  in  its  expression 
instead  of  being  exaggerated  : ‘ Have  you,  then,  no  longer 
any  respect  for  our  sex  ? I prefer  to  think,  for  the  sake 
of  your  honour,  that  you’re  joking.’ 

“ During  a journey  to  the  Brocken  with  this  really 
beautiful  woman,  she  reclined  on  his  shoulder  wdiile 
asleep  or  pretending  to  sleep  ; a jolt  threw  her  somewhat 
on  to  the  top  of  him,  and  he  put  his  arm  round  her  waist ; 
she  threw  herself  into  the  other  corner  of  the  carriage. 
He  doesn’t  think  that  she  is  incorruptible,  but  he  believes 
that  she  would  kill  herself  the  day  after  her  mistake. 
What  is  certain  is  that  he  loved  her  passionately  and  that 
he  was  similarly  loved  by  her,  that  they  saw  each  other 
continually  and  that  she  is  without  reproach.  But  the 
sun  is  very  pale  at  Halberstadt,  the  Government  very 
meddling,  and  these  two  persons  very  cold.  In  their 
most  passionate  interviews  Kant  and  Klopstock  were 
always  of  the  party. 


EUROPE  WITH  REGARD  TO  MARRIAGE  247 

“ Mermann  told  me  that  a married  man,  convicted  of 
adultery,  could  be  condemned  by  the  courts  of  Bruns- 
wick to  ten  years’  imprisonment ; the  law  has  fallen  into 
disuse,  but  at  least  ensures  that  people  do  not  joke  about 
this  sort  of  affair.  The  distinction  of  being  a man  with 
a past  is  very  far  from  being  such  an  advantage  here  as  it 
is  in  France,  where  you  can  scarcely  refuse  it  a married 
man  in  his  presence  without  insulting  him. 

“Anyone  who  told  my  Colonel  or  Ch  . . . that  they 
no  longer  have  women  since  their  marriage  would  get  a 
very  poor  reception. 

“ Some  years  ago  a woman  of  this  country,  in  a fit  of 
religious  fervour,  told  her  husband,  a gentleman  of  the 
Court  of  Brunswick,  that  she  had  deceived  him  for  six 
years  together.  The  husband,  as  big  a fool  as  his  wife, 
went  to  tell  the  news  to  the  Duke ; the  gallant  was 
obliged  to  resign  all  his  employments  and  to  leave  the 
country  in  twenty-four  hours,  under  a threat  from  the 
Duke  to  put  the  laws  in  motion.” 

“ Halberstadt,  July  yth,  1807. 

“ Husbands  are  not  deceived  here,  ’tis  true — but  ye 
gods,  what  women  ! Statues,  masses  scarcely  organic  ! 
Before  marriage  they  are  exceedingly  attractive,  graceful 
as  gazelles,  with  quick  tender  eyes  that  always  under- 
stand the  least  hint  of  love.  The  reason  is  that  they  are 
on  the  look  out  for  a husband.  So  soon  as  the  husband  is 
found,  they  become  absolutely  nothing  but  getters  of 
children,  in  a state  of  perpetual  adoration  before  the 
begetter.  In  a family  of  four  or  five  children  there 
must  always  be  one  of  them  ill,  since  half  the  children 
die  before  seven,  and  in  this  country,  immediately  one 
of  the  babies  is  ill,  the  mother  goes  out  no  more.  I can 
see  that  they  find  an  indescribable  pleasure  in  being 
caressed  by  their  children.  Little  by  little  they  lose  all 
their  ideas.  It  is  the  same  at  Philadelphia.  There  girls 
of  the  wildest  and  most  innocent  gaiety  become,  in  less 


ON  LOVE 


248 

than  a year,  the  most  boring  of  women.  To  have  done 
with  the  marriages  of  Protestant  Germany — a wife’s 
dowry  is  almost  nil  because  of  the  fiefs.  Mademoiselle 
de  Diesdorff,  daughter  of  a man  with  an  income  of 
forty  thousand  francs,  will  have  a dowry  of  perhaps 
two  thousand  crowns  (seven  thousand  five  hundred 
francs). 

“ M.  de  Mermann  got  four  thousand  crowns  with  his 
wife. 

“ The  rest  of  the  dowry  is  payable  in  vanity  at  the 
Court.  ‘ One  could  find  among  the  middle  class,’  Mer- 
mann told  me,  £ matches  with  a hundred  or  a hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  crowns  (six  hundred  thousand  francs 
instead  of  fifteen).  But  one  could  no  longer  be  presented 
at  Court  ; one  would  be  barred  all  society  in  which  a 
prince  or  princess  appeared:  if  s terrible .’  These  were 
his  words,  and  they  came  from  the  heart. 

“ A German  woman  with  the  soul  of  Phi  . . .,  her 
intellect,  her  noble  and  sensitive  face,  the  fire  she  must 
have  had  at  eighteen  (she  is  now  twenty-seven),  a woman 
such  as  this  country  produces,  with  her  virtue,  naturalness 
and  no  more  than  a useful  little  dose  of  religion — such  a 
woman  would  no  doubt  make  her  husband  very  happy. 
But  how  flatter  oneself  that  one  would  remain  true  to 
such  insipid  matrons  ? 

“ ‘ But  he  was  married,’  she  answered  me  this  morning 
when  I blamed  the  four  years’  silence  of  Corinne’s  lover, 
Lord  Oswald.  She  sat  up  till  three  o’clock  to  read  Corinne. 
The  novel  gave  her  profound  emotion,  and  now  she 
answers  me  with  touching  candour  : ‘But  he  was  married.’ 

“ Phi  ...  is  so  natural,  with  so  naive  a sensibility, 
that  even  in  this  land  of  the  natural,  she  seems  a prude 
to  the  petty  heads  that  govern  petty  hearts ; their 
witticisms  make  her  sick,  and  she  in  no  way  hides  it. 

“ When  she  is  in  good  company,  she  laughs  like  mad 
at  the  most  lively  jokes.  It  was  she  who  told  me  the  story 
of  the  young  princess  of  sixteen,  later  on  so  well  known, 


EUROPE  WITH  REGARD  TO  MARRIAGE  249 

who  often  managed  to  make  the  officer  on  guard  at  her 
door  come  up  into  her  rooms.” 

Switzerland 

I know  few  families  happier  than  those  of  the  Ober- 
land,  the  part  of  Switzerland  that  lies  round  Berne  ; and 
it  is  a fact  of  public  notoriety  (1816)  that  the  girls  there 
spend  Saturday  to  Sunday  nights  with  their  lovers. 

The  fools  who  know  the  world,  after  a voyage  from 
Paris  to  Saint  Cloud,  will  cry  out  ; happily  I find  in  a 
Swiss  writer  confirmation  of  what  I myself1  saw  during 
four  months. 

“ An  honest  peasant  complained  of  certain  losses  he 
had  sustained  in  his  orchard  ; I asked  him  why  he  didn’t 
keep  a dog : ‘ My  daughters  would  never  get  married.’ 
I did  not  understand  his  answer  ; he  told  me  he  had 
had  such  a bad-tempered  dog  that  none  of  the  young 
men  dared  climb  up  to  the  windows  any  longer. 

“ Another  peasant,  mayor  of  his  village,  told  me  in 
praise  of  his  wife,  that  when  she  was  a girl  no  one  had 
had  more  Kilter  or  W dchterer — that  is,  had  had  more 
young  men  come  to  spend  the  night  with  her. 

“ A Colonel,  widely  esteemed,  was  forced,  while  cross- 
ing the  mountains,  to  spend  the  night  at  the  bottom  of  one 
of  the  most  lonely  and  picturesque  valleys  in  the  country. 
He  lodged  with  the  first  magistrate  in  the  valley,  a man 
rich  and  of  good  repute.  On  entering,  the  stranger 
noticed  a young  girl  of  sixteen,  a model  of  gracefulness, 
freshness  and  simplicity : she  was  the  daughter  of  the 
master  of  the  house.  That  night  there  was  a village 
ball ; the  stranger  paid  court  to  the  girl,  who  was  really 
strikingly  beautiful.  At  last,  screwing  up  courage,  he 
ventured  to  ask  her  whether  he  couldn’t  ‘keep  watch’  with 
her.  ‘ No,’  answered  the  girl,  ‘ I share  a room  with  my 
cousin,  but  I’ll  come  myself  to  yours/  You  can  judge 

1 PrinHpe s phihsephiqms  du  Colonel  Weiss , 7 ed.,  Vol,  II.  p.  845, 


250 


ON  LOVE 


of  the  confusion  this  answer  gave  him.  They  had  supper 
the  stranger  got  up,  the  girl  took  a torch  and  followed 
him  into  his  room  ; he  imagined  the  moment  was  at 
hand.  £Oh  no,’  she  said  simply,  ‘ I must  first  ask  Mamma’s 
permission.’  He  would  have  been  less  staggered  by  a 
thunderbolt  ! She  went  out ; his  courage  revived  ; he 
slipped  into  these  good  folks’  parlour,  and  listened  to 
the  girl  begging  her  mother  in  a caressing  tone  to  grant 
her  the  desired  permission  ; in  the  end  she  got  it.  ‘ Eh, 
old  man,’  said  the  mother  to  her  husband  who  was  already 
in  bed,  ‘ d’you  allow  Trineli  to  spend  the  night  with 
the  Colonel  ? ’ ‘ With  all  my  heart,’  answers  the  father, 
‘ I think  I’d  lend  even  my  wife  to  such  a man.’  ‘ Right 
then,  go,’  says  the  mother  to  Trineli  ; ‘ but  be  a good 
girl,  and  don’t  take  off  your  petticoat  . . .’  At  day- 
break, Trineli,  respected  by  the  stranger,  rose  still  virgin. 
She  arranged  the  bedclothes,  prepared  coffee  and  cream 
for  her  partner  and,  after  she  had  breakfasted  with  him, 
seated  on  his  bed,  cut  off  a little  piece  of  her  broustpletz 
(a  piece  of  velvet  going  over  the  breast).  ‘ Here,’  she 
said,  ‘ keep  this  souvenir  of  a happy  night  ; I shall  never 
forget  it. — Why  are  you  a Colonel  ? ’ And  giving  him 
a last  kiss,  she  ran  away  ; he  didn’t  manage  to  see  her 
again.1  Here  you  have  the  absolute  opposite  of  French 
morals,  and  I am  far  from  approving  them.” 

Were  I a legislator,  I would  have  people  adopt  in 
France,  as  in  Germany,  the  custom  of  evening  dances. 
Three  times  a week  girls  would  go  with  their  mothers  to 
a ball,  beginning  at  seven  and  ending  at  midnight,  and 
demanding  no  other  outlay  but  a violin  and  a few  glasses 
of  water.  In  a neighbouring  room  the  mothers,  maybe 
a little  jealous  of  their  daughters’  happy  education, 

1 I am  fortunate  to  be  able  to  describe  in  the  words  of  another 
some  extraordinary  facts  that  I have  had  occasion  to  observe.  Certainly, 
but  for  M.  de  Weiss,  I shouldn’t  have  related  this  glimpse  of  foreign 
customs.  I have  omitted  others  equally  characteristic  of  Valencia  and 
Vienna, 


EUROPE  WITH  REGARD  TO  MARRIAGE  251 

would  play  boston  ; in  a third,  the  fathers  would  find 
papers  and  could  talk  politics.  Between  midnight  and 
one  o’clock  all  the  families  would  collect  together  and 
return  to  the  paternal  roof.  Girls  would  get  to  know 
young  men  ; they  would  soon  come  to  loathe  fatuity 
and  the  indiscretions  it  is  responsible  for — in  fact  they 
would  choose  themselves  husbands.  Some  girls  would 
have  unhappy  love-affairs,  but  the  number  of  deceived 
husbands  and  unhappy  matches  would  diminish  to  an 
immense  degree.  It  would  then  be  less  absurd  to  attempt 
to  punish  infidelity  with  dishonour.  The  law  could  say 
to  young  women  : “ You  have  chosen  your  husband — 
be  faithful  to  him.”  In  those  circumstances  I would 
allow  the  indictment  and  punishment  by  the  courts  of 
what  the  English  call  criminal  conversation.  The  courts 
could  impose,  to  the  profit  of  prisons  and  hospitals,  a 
fine  equal  to  two-thirds  of  the  seducer’s  fortune  and 
imprisonment  for  several  years. 

A woman  could  be  indicted  for  adultery  before  a 
jury.  The  jury  should  first  declare  that  the  husband’s 
conduct  had  been  irreproachable. 

A woman,  if  convicted,  could  be  condemned  to  im- 
prisonment for  life.  If  the  husband  had  been  absent 
more  than  two  years,  the  woman  could  not  be  condemned 
to  more  than  some  years’  imprisonment.  Public  morals 
would  soon  model  themselves  on  these  laws  and  would 
perfect  them.1 

1 The  Examiner,  an  English  paper,  when  giving  a report  of  the  Queen’s 
case  (No.  662,  September  3rd,  1820),  adds : — 

“ We  have  a system  of  sexual  morality,  under  which  thousands  of 
women  become  mercenary  prostitutes  whom  virtuous  women  are  taught 
to  scorn,  while  virtuous  men  retain  the  privilege  of  frequenting  these 
very  women,  without  its  being  regarded  as  anything  more  than  a venial 
offence.” 

In  the  land  of  Cant  there  is  something  noble  in  the  courage  that  dares 
speak  the  truth  on  this  subject,  however  trivial  and  obvious  it  be  ; it  is 
all  the  more  meritorious  in  a poor  paper,  which  can  only  hope  for  success 
if  bought  by  the  rich — and  they  look  on  the  bishops  and  the  Bible  as  the 
one  safeguard  of  their  fine  feathers. 


252 


ON  LOVE 


And  then  the  nobles  and  the  priests,  still  regretting 
bitterly  the  proper  times  of  Madame  de  Montespan  or 
Madame  du  Barry,  would  be  forced  to  allow  divorce.1 

There  would  be  in  a village  within  sight  of  Paris  an 
asylum  for  unfortunate  women,  a house  of  refuge  into 
which,  under  pain  of  the  galleys,  no  man  besides  the 
doctor  and  the  almoner  should  enter.  A woman  who 
wished  to  get  a divorce  would  be  bound,  first  of  all,  to 
go  and  place  herself  as  prisoner  in  this  asylum  ; there  she 
would  spend  two  years  without  going  out  once.  She 
could  write,  but  never  receive  an  answer. 

A council  composed  of  peers  of  France  and  certain 
magistrates  of  repute  would  direct,  in  the  woman’s  name, 
the  proceedings  for  a divorce  and  would  regulate  the 
pension  to  be  paid  to  the  institution  by  the  husband. 
A woman  who  failed  in  her  plea  before  the  courts  would 
be  allowed  to  spend  the  rest  of  her  life  in  the  asylum. 
The  Government  would  compensate  the  administration 
of  the  asylum  with  a sum  of  two  thousand  francs  for 
each  woman  who  sought  its  refuge.  To  be  received  in 
the  asylum,  a woman  must  have  had  a dowry  of  over 
twenty  thousand  francs.  The  moral  regime  wTould  be 
one  of  extreme  severity. 

After  two  years  of  complete  seclusion  from  the  world, 
a divorced  woman  could  marry  again. 

Once  arrived  at  this  point,  Parliament  could  consider 

1 Madame  de  Sevigne  wrote  to  her  daughter,  December  23rd,  1671  : 
“ I don’t  know  if  you  have  heard  that  ViUarceaux,  when  talking  to  the 
king  of  a post  for  his  son,  adroitly  took  the  occasion  to  tell  him,  that  there 
were  people  busy  telling  his  niece  (Mademoiselle  de  Rouxel)  that  his 
Majesty  had  designs  on  her  ; that  if  it  were  so,  he  begged  his  Majesty  to 
make  use  of  him  ; said  that  the  affair  would  be  better  in  his  hands  than  in 
others,  and  that  he  would  discharge  it  with  success.  The  King  began  to 
laugh  and  said  ; ‘ Villarceaux,  we  are  too  old,  you  and  I,  to  attack  young 
ladies  of  fifteen*’  And  like  a gallant  man,  he  laughed  at  him  and  told  tire 
ladies  what  he  had  said,”  See  Memoirs  of  Lauzun,  Bezenval,  Madame 
d’Epinay,  etc,,  etc,  I beg  my  readers  not  to  condemn  me  altogether 
without  re-reading  these  Memoirs. 


EUROPE  WITH  REGARD  TO  MARRIAGE  253 

whether,  in  order  to  infuse  in  girls  a spirit  of  emulation, 
it  would  not  be  advisable  to  allow  the  sons  a share  of 
the  paternal  heritage  double  that  of  their  sisters.  The 
daughters  who  did  not  find  husbands  would  have  a 
share  equal  to  that  of  the  male  children.  It  may  be 
remarked,  by  the  way,  that  this  system  would,  little  by 
little,  destroy  the  only  too  inconvenient  custom  of 
marriages  of  convenience.  The  possibility  of  divorce 
would  render  useless  such  outrageous  meanness. 

At  various  points  in  France,  and  in  certain  poor  villages, 
thirty  abbeys  for  old  maids  should  be  established.  The 
Government  should  endeavour  to  surround  these  estab- 
lishments with  consideration,  in  order  to  console  a little 
the  sorrows  of  the  poor  women  who  were  to  end  their 
lives  there.  They  should  be  given  all  the  toys  of  dignity. 

But  enough  of  such  chimeras ! 


CHAPTER  LIX 


WERTHER  AND  DON  JUAN 

AMONG  young  people,  when  they  have  done  with 
mocking  at  some  poor  lover,  and  he  has  left  the 
room,  the  conversation  generally  ends  by  discussing  the 
question,  whether  it  is  better  to  deal  with  women  like 
Mozart’s  Don  Juan  or  like  Werther.  The  contrast  would 
be  more  exact,  if  I had  said  Saint-Preux,  but  he  is  so 
dull  a personage,  that  in  making  him  their  representa- 
tive, I should  be  wronging  feeling  hearts. 

Don  Juan’s  character  requires  the  greater  number  of 
useful  and  generally  esteemed  virtues — admirable  daring, 
resourcefulness,  vivacity,  a cool  head,  a witty  mind,  etc. 

The  Don  Juans  have  great  moments  of  bitterness  and 
a very  miserable  old  age — but  then  most  men  do  not 
reach  old  age. 

The  lover  plays  a poor  role  in  the  drawing-room  in  the 
evening,  because  to  be  a success  and  a power  among 
women  a man  must  show  just  as  much  keenness  on  win- 
ning them  as  on  a game  of  billiards.  As  everybody 
knows  that  the  lover  has  a great  interest  in  life,  he  exposes 
himself,  for  all  his  cleverness,  to  mockery.  Only,  next 
morning  he  wakes,  not  to  be  in  a bad  temper  until 
something  piquant  or  something  nasty  turns  up  to  revive 
him,  but  to  dream  of  her  he  loves  and  build  castles  in 
the  air  for  love  to  dwell  in. 

Love  a la  Werther  opens  the  soul  to  all  the  arts,  to 
all  sweet  and  romantic  impressions,  to  the  moonlight,  to 
the  beauty  of  the  forest,  to  the  beauty  of  pictures — in  a 
word,  to  the  feeling  and  enjoyment  of  the  beautiful, 

254 


WERTHER  AND  DON  JUAN  255 

under  whatever  form  it  be  found,  even  under  the  coars- 
est cloak.  It  causes  man  to  find  happiness  even  without 
riches.1  Such  souls,  instead  of  growing  weary  like 
Mielhan,  Bezenval,  etc.,  go  mad,  like  Rousseau,  from  an 
excess  of  sensibility.  Women  endowed  with  a certain 
elevation  of  soul,  who,  after  their  first  youth,  know  how 
to  recognise  love,  both  where  it  is  and  what  it  is,  generally 
escape  the  Don  Juan — he  is  remarkable  in  their  eyes 
rather  by  the  number  than  the  quality  of  his  conquests. 
Observe,  to  the  prejudice  of  tender  hearts,  that  publicity 
is  as  necessary  to  Don  Juan’s  triumph  as  secrecy  is  to 
Werther’s.  Most  of  the  men  who  make  women  the 
business  of  their  life  are  born  in  the  lap  of  luxury  ; 
that  is  to  say,  they  are,  as  a result  of  their  education  and 
the  example  set  by  everything  that  surrounded  them  in 
youth,  hardened  egoists.2 

The  real  Don  Juan  even  ends  by  looking  on  women  as 
the  enemy,  and  rejoicing  in  their  misfortunes  of  every 
sort. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  charming  Duke  delle  Pignatelle 
showed  us  the  proper  way  to  find  happiness  in  pleasures, 

1 See  the  first  volume  of  the  Nouvelle  Heloise.  I should  say  every 
volume,  if  Saint-Preux  had  happened  to  have  the  ghost  of  a character, 
but  he  was  a real  poet,  a babbler  without  resolution,  who  had  no  courage 
until  he  had  made  a peroration — yes,  a very  dull  man.  Such  men  have 
an  immense  advantage,  in  not  upsetting  feminine  pride,  and  in  never 
giving  their  mistress  a fright.  Weigh  the  word  well ; it  contains  perhaps 
the  whole  secret  of  the  success  of  dull  men  with  distinguished  women. 
Nevertheless  love  is  only  a passion  in  so  far  as  it  makes  one  forget  one’s 
self-love.  Thus  they  do  not  completely  know  love,  these  women,  who, 
like  L.,  ask  of  it  the  pleasures  of  pride.  Unconsciously,  they  are  on  the 
same  level  as  the  prosaic  man,  the  object  of  their  contempt,  who  in  love 
seeks  love  plus  vanity.  And  they  too,  they  want  love  and  pride  ; but 
love  goes  out  with  flaming  cheeks ; he  is  the  proudest  of  despots ; he 
will  be  all,  or  nothing. 

2 See  a certain  page  of  Andre  Chenier  (Works,  p.  370)  ; or  rather  look 
at  life,  though  that’s  much  harder.  “ In  general,  those  whom  we  call 
patricians  are  much  further  than  other  men  from  loving  anything,”  says 
the  Emperor  Marcus  Aurelius.  {Meditations.) 


ON  LOVE 


256 

even  without  passion.  “ I know  that  I like  a woman,” 
he  told  me  one  evening,  “ when  I find  myself  completely 
confused  in  her  company,  and  don’t  know  what  to  say  to 
her.”  So  far  from  letting  his  self-esteem  be  put  to 
shame  or  take  its  revenge  for  these  embarrassing 
moments,  he  cultivated  them  lovingly  as  the  source  of  his 
happiness.  With  this  charming  young  man  gallant- 
love  was  quite  free  from  the  corroding  influence  of 
vanity  ; his  was  a shade  of  true  love,  pale,  but  innocent 
and  unmixed  ; and  he  respected  all  women,  as  charming 
beings,  towards  whom  we  are  far  from  just.  (February 
20,  1820.) 

As  a man  does  not  choose  himself  a temperament,  that 
is  to  say,  a soul,  he  cannot  play  a part  above  him.  J.  J. 
Rousseau  and  the  Due  de  Richelieu  might  have  tried  in 
vain  ; for  all  their  cleverness,  they  could  never  have 
exchanged  their  fortunes  with  respect  to  women.  I 
could  well  believe  that  the  Duke  never  had  moments 
such  as  those  that  Rousseau  experienced  in  the  park  de  la 
Chevrette  with  Madame  d’Houdetot ; at  Venice,  when 
listening  to  the  music  of  the  Scuole  ; and  at  Turin  at 
the  feet  of  Madame  Bazile.  But  then  he  never  had  to 
blush  at  the  ridicule  that  overwhelmed  Rousseau  in  his 
affair  with  Madame  de  Larnage,  remorse  for  which 
pursued  him  during  the  rest  of  his  life. 

A Saint-Preux’s  part  is  sweeter  and  fills  up  every 
moment  of  existence,  but  it  must  be  owned  that  that 
of  a Don  Juan  is  far  more  brilliant.  Saint-Preux’s  tastes 
may  change  at  middle  age  : solitary  and  retired,  and  of 
pensive  habits,  he  takes  a back  place  on  the  stage  of  life, 
v/hile  Don  Juan  realises  the  magnificence  of  his  reputa- 
tion among  men,  and  could  yet  perhaps  please  a woman 
of  feeling  by  making  sincerely  the  sacrifice  of  his  liber- 
tine’s tastes. 

After  all  the  reasons  offered  so  far,  on  both  sides  of 
the  question,  the  balance  still  seems  to  be  even.  What 
makes  me  think  that  the  Werthers  are  the  happier,  is 


WERTHER  AND  DON  JUAN  257 

that  Don  Juan  reduces  love  to  the  level  of  an  ordinary- 
affair.  Instead  of  being  able,  like  Werther,  to  shape 
realities  to  his  desires,  he  finds,  in  love,  desires  which  are 
imperfectly  satisfied  by  cold  reality,  just  as  in  ambition, 
avarice  or  other  passions.  Instead  of  losing  himself  in 
the  enchanting  reveries  of  crystallisation,  he  thinks,  like 
a general,  of  the  success  of  his  manoeuvres1  and,  in  a 
word,  he  kills  love,  instead  of  enjoying  it  more  keenly 
than  other  men,  as  ordinary  people  imagine. 

This  seems  to  me  unanswerable.  And  there  is  another 
reason,  which  is  no  less  so  in  my  eyes,  though,  thanks  to 
the  malignity  of  Providence,  we  must  pardon  men  for 
not  recognising  it.  The  habit  of  justice  is,  to  my  think- 
ing, apart  from  accidents,  the  most  assured  way  of  arriv- 
ing at  happiness — and  a Werther  is  no  villain.2 

To  be  happy  in  crime,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  have 
no  remorse.  I do  not  know  whether  such  a creature  can 
exist  ;3  I have  never  seen  him.  I would  bet  that  the 
affair  of  Madame  Michelin  disturbed  the  Due  de  Riche- 
lieu’s nights. 

One  ought  either  to  have  absolutely  no  sympathy  or 
be  able  to  put  the  human  race  to  death — which  is  im- 
possible.4 

People  who  only  know  love  from  novels  will  experi- 

1 Compare  Lovelace  and  Tom  Jones. 

2 See  the  Vie  privee  du  due  de  Richelieu , nine  volumes  in  8vo.  Why, 
at  the  moment  that  an  assassin  kills  a man,  does  he  not  fall  dead  at  his 
victim’s  feet  ? Why  is  there  illness  ? And,  if  there  is  illness,  why  does 
not  a Troistaillons  die  of  the  colic  ? Why  does  Henry  IV  reign  twenty- 
one  years  and  Lewis  XV  fifty-nine  ? Why  is  not  the  length  of  life  in 
exact  proportion  to  the  degree  of  virtue  in  each  man  ? These  and  other 
“ infamous  questions,”  English  philosophers  will  say  there  is  certainly  no 
merit  in  posing ; but  there  would  be  some  merit  in  answering  them 
otherwise  than  with  insults  and  “ cant.” 

3 Note  Nero  after  the  murder  of  his  mother,  in  Suetonius,  and  yet 
with  what  a fine  lot  of  flattery  was  he  surrounded. 

4 Cruelty  is  only  a morbid  kind  of  sympathy.  Power  is,  after  love, 
the  first  source  of  happiness,  only  because  one  believes  oneself  to  be  in 
a position  to  command  sympathy. 


ON  LOVE 


258 

ence  a natural  repugnance  in  reading  these  words  in 
favour  of  virtue  in  love.  The  reason  is  that,  by  the  laws 
of  the  novel,  the  portraiture  of  a virtuous  love  is  essen- 
tially tiresome  and  uninteresting.  Thus  the  sentiment  of 
virtue  seems  from  a distance  to  neutralise  that  of  love, 
and  the  words  “ a virtuous  love  ” seem  synonymous  with 
a feeble  love.  But  all  this  comes  from  weakness  in  the 
art  of  painting,  and  has  nothing  to  do  with  passion  such 
as  it  exists  in  nature.1 

I beg  to  be  allowed  to  draw  a picture  of  my  most 
intimate  friend. 

Don  Juan  renounces  all  the  duties  which  bind  him  to 
the  rest  of  men.  In  the  great  market  of  life  he  is  a 
dishonest  merchant,  who  is  always  buying  and  never 
paying.  The  idea  of  equality  inspires  the  same  rage  in 
him  as  water  in  a man  with  hydrophobia  ; it  is  for  this 
reason  that  pride  of  birth  goes  so  well  with  the  character 
of  Don  Juan.  With  the  idea  of  the  equality  of  rights 
disappears  that  of  justice,  or,  rather,  if  Don  Juan  is 
sprung  from  an  illustrious  family,  such  common  ideas 
have  never  come  to  him.  I could  easily  believe  that  a 
man  with  an  historic  name  is  sooner  disposed  than 
another  to  set  fire  to  the  town  in  order  to  get  his  egg 
cooked.2  We  must  excuse  him  ; he  is  so  possessed  with 

1 If  you  offer  the  spectator  a picture  of  the  sentiment  of  virtue  side 
by  side  with  the  sentiment  of  love,  you  will  find  that  you  have  represented 
a heart  divided  between  two  sentiments.  In  novels  the  only  good  of 
virtue  is  to  be  sacrificed  ; vide  Julie  d’Etanges. 

2 V ide  Saint-Simon,  fausse  couche  of  the  Duchesse  de  Bourgoyne ; 

and  Madame  de  Motteville,  passim  : That  princess,  who  was  surprised 
to  find  that  other  women  had  five  fingers  on  their  hands  like  herself ; 
that  Gaston,  Duke  of  Orleans,  brother  of  Lewis  XIII,  who  found  it 
quite  easy  to  understand  why  his  favourites  went  to  the  scaffold  just  to 
please  him.  Note,  in  1820,  these  fine  gentlemen  putting  forward  an 
electoral  law  that  may  bring  back  your  Robespierres  into  France,  etc., 
etc,  And  observe  Naples  in  1799.  (I  leave  this  note  written  in  1820.  A 
list  of  the  great  nobles  in  1778,  with  notes  on  their  morals,  compiled  by 
General  seen  at  Naples  in  the  library  of  the  Mareheie  Berio— a 

w NaatUleu!  fpnaieript  el  thm  pag«0 


WERTHER  AND  DON  JUAN  259 

self-love  that  he  comes  to  the  point  of  losing  all  idea  of 
the  evil  he  causes,  and  of  seeing  no  longer  anything  in 
the  universe  capable  of  joy  or  sorrow  except  himself. 
In  the  fire  of  youth,  when  passion  fills  our  own  hearts 
with  the  pulse  of  life  and  keeps  us  from  mistrust  of 
others,  Don  Juan,  all  senses  and  apparent  happiness, 
applauds  himself  for  thinking  only  of  himself,  while  he 
sees  other  men  pay  their  sacrifices  to  duty.  He  imagines 
that  he  has  found  out  the  great  art  of  living.  But,  in 
the  midst  of  his  triumph,  while  still  scarcely  thirty  years 
of  age,  he  perceives  to  his  astonishment  that  life  is 
wanting,  and  feels  a growing  disgust  for  what  were  all 
his  pleasures.  Don  Juan  told  me  at  Thorn,  in  an  access 
of  melancholy : “ There  are  not  twenty  different  sorts 
of  women,  and  once  you  have  had  two  or  three  of  each 
sort,  satiety  sets  in.”  I answered  : “ It  is  only  imagina- 
tion that  can  for  ever  escape  satiety.  Each  woman  in- 
spires a different  interest,  and,  what  is  more,  if  chance 
throws  the  same  woman  in  your  way  two  or  three  years 
earlier  or  later  in  the  course  of  life,  and  if  chance  means 
you  to  love,  you  can  love  the  same  woman  in  different 
manners.  But  a woman  of  gentle  heart,  even  when  she 
loved  you,  would  produce  in  you,  because  of  her  pre- 
tensions to  equality,  only  irritation  to  your  pride.  Your 
way  of  having  women  kills  all  the  other  pleasures  of  life ; 
Werther’s  increases  them  a hundredfold.” 

This  sad  tragedy  reaches  the  last  act.  You  see  Don 
Juan  in  old  age,  turning  on  this  and  that,  never  on  him- 
self, as  the  cause  of  his  own  satiety.  You  see  him,  tor- 
mented by  a consuming  poison,  flying  from  this  to  that 
in  a continual  change  of  purpose.  But,  however  brilliant 
the  appearances  may  be,  in  the  end  he  only  changes  one 
misery  for  another.  He  tries  the  boredom  of  inaction, 
he  tries  the  boredom  of  excitement— there  is  nothing 
else  for  him  to  choose* 

At  last  he  discovers  the  fatal  truth  and  confesses  it  to 
himself  i henceforward  he  is  reduced  for  all  his  enjoys 


26o 


ON  LOVE 


ment  to  making  display  of  his  power,  and  openly  doing 
evil  for  evil’s  sake.  In  short,  ’tis  the  last  degree  of 
settled  gloom  ; no  poet  has  dared  give  us  a faithful 
picture  of  it — the  picture,  if  true,  would  strike  horror. 
But  one  may  hope  that  a man,  above  the  ordinary,  will 
retrace  his  steps  along  this  fatal  path  ; for  at  the  bottom 
of  Don  Juan’s  character  there  is  a contradiction.  I have 
supposed  him  a man  of  great  intellect,  and  great  intellect 
leads  us  to  the  discovery  of  virtue  by  the  road  that  runs 
to  the  temple  of  glory.1 

La  Rochefoucauld,  who,  however,  was  a master  of 
self-love,  and  who  in  real  life  was  nothing  but  a silly 
man  of  letters,2  says  (2 67) : “ The  pleasure  of  love  con- 
sists in  loving,  and  a man  gets  more  happiness  from  the 
passion  he  feels  than  from  the  passion  he  inspires.” 

Don  Juan’s  happiness  consists  in  vanity,  based,  it  is 
true,  on  circumstances  brought  about  by  great  intelli- 
gence and  activity  ; but  he  must  feel  that  the  most 
inconsiderable  general  who  wins  a battle,  the  most  in- 
considerable prefect  who  keeps  his  department  in  order, 
realises  a more  signal  enjoyment  than  his  own.  The  Due 
de  Nemours’  happiness  when  Madame  de  Cleves  tells 
him  that  she  loves  him,  is,  I imagine,  above  Napoleon’s 
happiness  at  Marengo. 

Love  a la  Don  Juan  is  a sentiment  of  the  same  kind  as 
a taste  for  hunting.  It  is  a desire  for  activity  which  must 
be  kept  alive  by  divers  objects  and  by  putting  a man’s 
talents  continually  to  the  test. 

Love  a la  Werther  is  like  the  feeling  of  a schoolboy 
writing  a tragedy — and  a thousand  times  better  ; it  is 
a new  goal,  to  which  everything  in  life  is  referred  and 
which  changes  the  face  of  everything.  Passion-love  casts 
all  nature  in  its  sublimer  aspects  before  the  eyes  of  a 

1 The  character  of  the  young  man  of  the  privileged  classes  in  1820 
is  pretty  correctly  represented  by  the  brave  Bothwell  of  Old  Mortality. 

2 See  Memoirs  of  de  Retz  and  the  unpleasant  minute  he  gave  the 
coadjutor  at  the  Parliament  between  two  doors. 


26i 


WERTHER  AND  DON  JUAN 

man,  as  a novelty  invented  but  yesterday.  He  is  amazed 
that  he  has  never  seen  the  singular  spectacle  that  is  now 
discovered  to  his  soul.  Everything  is  new,  everything  is 
alive,  everything  breathes  the  most  passionate  interest.1 
A lover  sees  the  woman  he  loves  on  the  horizon  of  every 
landscape  he  comes  across,  and,  while  he  travels  a hun- 
dred miles  to  go  and  catch  a glimpse  of  her  for  an  instant, 
each  tree,  each  rock  speaks  to  him  of  her  in  a different 
manner  and  tells  him  something  new  about  her.  In- 
stead of  the  tumult  of  this  magic  spectacle,  Don  Juan 
finds  that  external  objects  have  for  him  no  value  apart 
from  their  degree  of  utility,  and  must  be  made  amusing 
by  some  new  intrigue. 

Love  a la  Werther  has  strange  pleasures ; after  a year 
or  two,  the  lover  has  now,  so  to  speak,  but  one  heart 
with  her  he  loves ; and  this,  strange  to  say,  even  inde- 
pendent of  his  success  in  love — even  under  a cruel 
mistress.  Whatever  he  does,  whatever  he  sees,  he  asks 
himself : “ What  would  she  say  if  she  were  with  me  ? 
What  would  I say  to  her  about  this  view  of  Casa- 
Lecchio  ? ” He  speaks  to  her,  he  hears  her  answer,  he 
smiles  at  her  fun.  A hundred  miles  from  her,  and  under 
the  weight  of  her  anger,  he  surprises  himself,  reflecting : 
“ Leonore  was  very  gay  that  night.”  Then  he  wakes  up  : 
“ Good  God  ! ” he  says  to  himself  with  a sigh,  “ there 
are  madmen  in  Bedlam  less  mad  than  I.” 

“ You  make  me  quite  impatient,”  said  a friend  of 
mine,  to  whom  I read  out  this  remark : “ you  are  con- 
tinually opposing  the  passionate  man  to  the  Don  Juan, 
and  that  is  not  the  point  in  dispute.  You  would  be  right, 
if  a man  could  provide  himself  with  passion  at  will. 
But  what  about  indifference — what  is  to  be  done  then  ? ” 
— Gallant-love  without  horrors.  Its  horrors  always  come 
from  a little  soul,  that  needs  to  be  reassured  as  to 
its  own  merit. 

To  continue. — The  Don  Juans  must  find  great  diffi- 
1 Vol.  1819.  Honeysuckle  on  the  slopes. 


262 


ON  LOVE 


culty  in  agreeing  with  what  I was  saying  just  now  of 
this  state  of  the  soul.  Besides  the  fact  that  they  can 
neither  see  nor  feel  this  state,  it  gives  too  great  a blow 
to  their  vanity.  The  error  of  their  life  is  expecting  to 
win  in  a fortnight  what  a timid  lover  can  scarcely 
obtain  in  six  months.  They  base  their  reckoning  on 
experience  got  at  the  expense  of  those  poor  devils,  who 
have  neither  the  soul  to  please  a woman  of  feeling  by 
revealing  its  ingenuous  workings,  nor  the  necessary  wit 
for  the  part  of  a Don  Juan.  They  refuse  to  see  that  the 
same  prize,  though  granted  by  the  same  woman,  is  not 
the  same  thing. 

L’homme  prudent  sans  cesse  se  mefie. 

C’est  pour  cela  que  des  amants  trompeurs 
Le  nombre  est  grand.  Les  dames  que  l’on  prie 
Font  soupirer  longtemps  des  serviteurs 
Qui  n’ont  jamais  ete  faux  de  leur  vie. 

Mais  du  tresor  qu’elles  donnent  enfin 
Le  prix  n’est  su  que  du  coeur  qui  le  got'ite ; 

Plus  on  l’ach^te  et  plus  il  est  divin  : 

Le  los  d’amour  ne  vaut  pas  ce  qu’il  coute.1 

(Nivernais,  Le  Troubadour  Guillaume  de  la  Tour, 
III,  342.) 

Passion-love  in  the  eyes  of  a Don  Juan  may  be  com- 
pared to  a strange  road,  steep  and  toilsome,  that  begins, 
’tis  true,  amidst  delicious  copses,  but  is  soon  lost  among 
sheer  rocks,  whose  aspect  is  anything  but  inviting  to 
the  eyes  of  the  vulgar.  Little  by  little  the  road  pene- 
trates into  the  mountain-heights,  in  the  midst  of  a dark 
forest,  where  the  huge  trees,  intercepting  the  daylight 
with  their  shaggy  tops  that  seem  to  touch  the  sky,  throw7 
a kind  of  horror  into  souls  untempered  by  dangers. 

p A prudent  man  continually  mistrusts  himself.  ’Tis  the  reason  why 
the  number  of  false  lovers  is  great.  The  women  whom  men  worship, 
make  their  servants,  who  have  never  been  false  in  their  life,  sigh  a 
long  time.  But  the  value  of  the  prize  that  they  give  them  in  the  end, 
can  only  be  known  to  the  heart  that  tastes  it ; the  greater  the  cost,  the 
more  divine  it  is.  The  praises  of  love  are  not  worth  its  pains. — Tr.] 


WERTHER  AND  DON  JUAN  263 

After  wandering  with  difficulty,  as  in  an  endless  maze, 
whose  multiple  turnings  try  the  patience  of  our  self- 
love,  on  a sudden  we  turn  a corner  and  find  ourselves  in  a 
new  world,  in  the  delicious  valley  of  Cashmire  of  Lalla 
Rookh.  How  can  the  Don  Juans,  who  never  venture 
along  this  road,  or  at  most  take  but  a few  steps  along  it, 
judge  of  the  views  that  it  offers  at  the  end  of  the 
journey  ? . . . 

• • • • © • 

So  you  see  inconstancy  is  good  : 

“ II  me  faut  du  nouveau,  n’en  fut-il  plus  au  monde.”1 

Very  well,  I reply,  you  make  light  of  oaths  and  justice, 
and  what  can  you  look  for  in  inconstancy  ? Pleasure  ap- 
parently. 

But  the  pleasure  to  be  got  from  a pretty  woman, 
desired  a fortnight  and  loved  three  months,  is  different 
from  the  pleasure  to  be  found  in  a mistress,  desired  three 
years  and  loved  ten. 

If  I do  not  insert  the  word  “ always  ” the  reason  is  that  I 
have  been  told  old  age,  by  altering  our  organs,  renders 
us  incapable  of  loving  ; myself,  I don’t  believe  it.  When 
your  mistress  has  become  your  intimate  friend,  she  can 
give  you  new  pleasures,  the  pleasures  of  old  age.  ’Tis  a 
flower  that,  after  it  has  been  a rose  in  the  morning — 
the  season  of  flowers — becomes  a delicious  fruit  in  the 
evening,  when  the  roses  are  no  longer  in  season.2 

A mistress  desired  three  years  is  really  a mistress  in 
every  sense  of  the  word ; you  cannot  approach  her 
without  trembling  ; and  let  me  tell  the  Don  Juans  that 
a man  who  trembles  is  not  bored.  The  pleasures  of  love 
are  always  in  proportion  to  our  fear. 

The  evil  of  inconstancy  is  weariness ; the  evil  of 
passion  is  despair  and  death.  The  cases  of  despair  are 
noted  and  become  legend.  No  one  pays  attention  to  the 

f1  I must  have  novelty,  even  if  there  were  none  left  in  the  world. — Tr.] 
i See  the  Memoirs  of  Colle — his  wife. 


ON  LOVE 


264 

weary  old  libertines  dying  of  boredom,  with  whom  the 
streets  of  Paris  are  lined. 

“ Love  blows  out  more  brains  than  boredom.”  I have 
no  doubt  of  it : boredom  robs  a man  of  everything,  even 
the  courage  to  kill  himself. 

There  is  a certain  type  of  character  which  can  find 
pleasure  only  in  variety.  A man  who  cries  up  Cham- 
pagne at  the  expense  of  Bordeaux  is  only  saying,  with 
more  or  less  eloquence  : “ I prefer  Champagne.” 

Each  of  these  wines  has  its  partisans,  and  they  are  all 
right,  so  long  as  they  quite  understand  themselves,  and 
run  after  the  kind  of  happiness  best  suited  to  their  organs1 
and  their  habits.  What  ruins  the  case  for  inconstancy  is 
that  all  fools  range  themselves  on  that  side  from  lack  of 
courage. 

But  after  all,  everyone,  if  he  will  take  the  trouble  to 
look  into  himself,  has  his  ideal,  and  there  always  seems  to 
me  something  a little  ridiculous  in  wanting  to  convert 
your  neighbour. 

1 Physiologists,  who  understand  our  organs,  tell  you  : “ Injustice,  in 
the  relations  of  social  life,  produces  harshness,  diffidence  and  misery.” 


BOOK  III 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


UNDER  this  title,  which  I would  willingly  have 
made  still  more  modest,  I have  brought  together, 
without  excessive  severity,  a selection  made  from  three 
or  four  hundred  playing  cards,  on  which  I found  a few 
lines  scrawled  in  pencil.  That  which,  I suppose,  must 
be  called  the  original  manuscript,  for  want  of  a simpler 
name,  was  in  many  places  made  up  of  pieces  of  paper  of 
all  sizes,  written  on  in  pencil,  and  joined  together  by 
Lisio  with  sealing-wax,  to  save  him  the  trouble  of  copy- 
ing them  afresh.  He  told  me  once  that  nothing  he  ever 
noted  down  seemed  to  him  worth  the  trouble  of  recopy- 
ing an  hour  later.  I have  entered  so  fully  into  all  this  in 
the  hope  that  it  may  serve  as  an  excuse  for  repetitions. 

I 

Everything  can  be  acquired  in  solitude,  except  char- 
acter. 

II 

1821.  Hatred,  love  and  avarice,  the  three  ruling 
passions  at  Rome,  and  with  gambling  added,  almost 
the  only  ones. 

At  first  sight  the  Romans  seem  ill-natured,  but  they 
are  only  very  much  on  their  guard  and  blessed  with  an 
imagination  which  flares  up  at  the  least  suggestion. 

If  they  give  a gratuitous  proof  of  ill-nature,  it  is  the 
case  of  a man,  gnawed  by  fear,  and  testing  his  gun  to 
reassure  himself. 


267 


268  ON  LOVE 

III 

If  I were  to  say,  as  I believe,  that  good-nature  is  the 
keynote  of  the  Parisian’s  character,  I should  be  very 
frightened  of  having  offended  him. — “ I won’t  be 
good ! ” 

IV 

A proof  of  love  comes  to  light,  when  all  the  pleasures 
and  all  the  pains,  which  all  the  other  passions  and  wants 
of  man  can  produce,  in  a moment  cease  working. 

V 

Prudery  is  a kind  of  avarice — the  worst  of  all. 

VI 

To  have  a solid  character  is  to  have  a long  and  tried 
experience  of  life’s  disillusions  and  misfortunes.  Then 
it  is  a question  of  desiring  constantly  or  not  at  all. 

VII 

Love,  such  as  it  exists  in  smart  society,  is  the  love  of 
battle,  the  love  of  gambling. 

VIII 

Nothing  kills  gallant  love  like  gusts  of  passion-love 
from  the  other  side.  (Contessina  L.  Forli — 1819). 

IX 

A great  fault  in  women,  and  the  most  offensive  of  all 
to  a man  a little  worthy  of  that  name : The  public,  in 
matters  of  feeling,  never  soars  above  mean  ideas,  and 
women  make  the  public  the  supreme  judge  of  their 
lives — even  the  most  distinguished  women,  I maintain, 
often  unconsciously,  and  even  while  believing  and  saying 
the  contrary.  (Brescia,  1819). 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS  269 

X 

Prosaic  is  a new  word,  which  once  I thought  absurd, 
for  nothing  could  be  colder  than  our  poetry.  If  there 
has  been  any  warmth  in  France  for  the  last  fifty  years,  it 
is  assuredly  to  be  found  in  its  prose. 

But  anyhow,  the  little  Countess  L used  the  word 

and  I like  writing  it. 

The  definition  of  prosaic  is  to  be  got  from  Don 
Quixote , and  “ the  complete  contrast  of  Knight  and 
Squire.”  The  Knight  tall  and  pale  ; the  Squire  fat  and 
fresh.  The  former  all  heroism  and  courtesy  ; the  latter 
all  selfishness  and  servility.  The  former  always  full  of 
romantic  and  touching  fancies ; the  latter  a model  of 
worldly  wisdom,  a compendium  of  wise  saws.  The  one 
always  feeding  his  soul  on  dreams  of  heroism  and  daring  ; 
the  other  ruminating  some  really  sensible  scheme  in 
which,  never  fear,  he  will  take  into  strict  account  all 
the  shameful,  selfish  little  movements  the  human  heart 
is  prone  to. 

At  the  very  moment  when  the  former  should  be 
brought  to  his  senses  by  the  non-success  of  yesterday’s 
dreams,  he  is  already  busy  on  his  castles  in  Spain  for 
to-day. 

You  ought  to  have  a prosaic  husband  and  to  choose  a 
romantic  lover. 

Marlborough  had  a prosaic  soul : Henry  IV,  in  love  at 
fifty-five  with  a young  princess,  who  could  not  forget 
his  age,  a romantic  heart.1 

There  are  fewer  prosaic  beings  among  the  nobility 
than  in  the  middle-class. 

This  is  the  fault  of  trade,  it  makes  people  prosaic. 

1 Dulaure,  History  of  Paris. 

Silent  episode  in  the  queen’s  apartment  the  e’/ening  of  the  flight  of 
the  Princesse  de  Conde  : the  ministers  transfixed  to  the  wall  and  mute, 
the  King  striding  up  and  down. 


270  ON  LOVE 

XI 

Nothing  so  interesting  as  passion  : for  there  every- 
thing is  unforeseen,  and  the  principal  is  the  victim. 
Nothing  so  flat  as  gallantry,  where  everything  is  a matter 
of  calculation,  as  in  all  the  prosaic  affairs  of  life. 

XII 

At  the  end  of  a visit  you  always  finish  by  treating  a 
lover  better  than  you  meant  to.  (L.,  November  2nd , 1818). 

XIII 

In  spite  of  genius  in  an  upstart,  the  influence  of  rank 
always  makes  itself  felt.  Think  of  Rousseau  losing  his 
heart  to  all  the  “ ladies  ” he  met,  and  weeping  tears  of 

rapture  because  the  Duke  of  L , one  of  the  dullest 

courtiers  of  the  period,  deigns  to  take  the  right  side 
rather  than  the  left  in  a walk  with  a certain  M.  Coindet, 
friend  of  Rousseau  ! (L.,  May  3 rd,  1820.) 

XIV 

Women’s  only  educator  is  the  world.  A mother  in  love 
does  not  hesitate  to  appear  in  the  seventh  heaven  of 
delight,  or  in  the  depth  of  despair,  before  her  daughters 
aged  fourteen  or  fifteen.  Remember  that,  under  these 
happy  skies,  plenty  of  women  are  quite  nice-looking  till 
forty-five,  and  the  majority  are  married  at  eighteen. 

Think  of  La  Valchiusa  saying  yesterday  of  Lampugnani : 
“ Ah,  that  man  was  made  for  me,  he  could  love,  . . . 
etc.,  etc,”  and  so  on  in  this  strain  to  a friend — all  before 
her  daughter,  a little  thing  of  fourteen  or  fifteen,  very 
much  on  the  alert,  and  whom  she  also  took  with  her  on 
the  more  than  friendly  walks  with  the  lover  in  question. 

Sometimes  girls  get  hold  of  sound  rules  of  conduct, 
For  example;  take  Madame  Guamacd.  addressing  her 
two  daughters  and  two  men*  who  have  never  called  on 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


271 


her  before.  For  an  hour  and  a half  she  treats  them  to 
profound  maxims,  based  on  examples  within  their  own 
knowledge  (that  of  La  Cercara  in  Hungary),  on  the  pre- 
cise point  at  which  it  is  right  to  punish  with  infidelity  a 
lover  who  misbehaves  himself.  (Ravenna,  January  23 rd, 
1820.) 

XV 

The  sanguine  man,  the  true  Frenchman  (Colonel 

M ) instead  of  being  tormented  by  excess  of  feeling, 

like  Rousseau,  if  he  has  a rendezvous  for  the  next  evening 
at  seven,  sees  everything,  right  up  to  the  blessed  moment, 
through  rosy  spectacles.  People  of  this  kind  are  not  in 
the  least  susceptible  to  passion-love  ; it  would  upset 
their  sweet  tranquillity.  I will  go  so  far  as  to  say  that 
perhaps  they  would  find  its  transports  a nuisance,  or  at 
all  events  be  humiliated  by  the  timidity  it  produces. 

XVI 

Most  men  of  the  world,  through  vanity,  caution  or 
disaster,  let  themselves  love  a woman  freely  only  after 
intimate  intercourse. 

XVII 

With  very  gentle  souls  a woman  needs  to  be  easy-going 
in  order  to  encourage  crystallisation. 

XVIII 

A woman  imagines  that  the  voice  of  the  public  is 
speaking  through  the  mouth  of  the  first  fool  or  the  first 
treacherous  friend  who  claims  to  be  its  faithful  inter- 
preter to  her, 

XIX 

There  is  a delicious  pleasure  in  clasping  in  your  arms 
$ woman  who  has  wronged  you  grievously,  who  has  beett 


ON  LOVE 


272 

your  bitter  enemy  for  many  a day,  and  is  ready  to  be  so 
again.  Good  fortune  of  the  French  officers  in  Spain, 


Solitude  is  what  one  wants,  to  relish  one’s  own  heart 
and  to  love  ; but  to  succeed  one  must  go  amongst  men, 
here,  there  and  everywhere. 

XXI 

“ All  the  observations  of  the  French  on  love  are  well 
written,  carefully  and  without  exaggeration,  but  they 
bear  only  on  light  affections,”  said  that  delightful  person, 
Cardinal  Lante. 


XXII 

In  Goldoni’s  comedy,  the  Innamorati,  all  the  workings 
of  passion  are  excellent ; it  is  the  very  repulsive  meanness 
of  style  and  thought  which  revolts  one.  The  contrary  is 
true  of  a French  comedy. 

XXIII 

The  youth  of  1822:  To  say  “serious  turn  of  mind, 
active  disposition  ” means  “ sacrifice  of  the  present  to 
the  future.”  Nothing  develops  the  soul  like  the  power 
and  the  habit  of  making  such  sacrifices.  I foresee  the 
probability  of  more  great  passions  in  1832  than  in  1772. 

XXIV 

The  choleric  temperament,  when  it  does  not  display 
itself  in  too  repulsive  a form,  is  one  perhaps  most  apt  of 
all  to  strike  and  keep  alive  the  imagination  of  women. 
If  the  choleric  temperament  does  not  fall  among 
propitious  surroundings,  as  Lauzun  in  Saint-Simon 
(Memoirs),  the  difficulty  is  to  grow  used  to  it.  But 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


273 


once  grasped  by  a woman,  this  character  must  fascinate 
her : yes,  even  the  savage  and  fanatic  Balfour  ( Old 
Mortality).  For  women  it  is  the  antithesis  of  the 
prosaic. 

XXV 

In  love  one  often  doubts  what  one  believes  most 
strongly  (La  R.,  355).  In  every  other  passion,  what  once 
we  have  proved,  we  no  longer  doubt. 

XXVI 

Verse  was  invented  to  assist  the  memory.  Later  it 
was  kept  to  increase  the  pleasure  of  reading  by  the  sight 
of  the  difficulty  overcome.  Its  survival  nowadays  in 
dramatic  art  is  a relic  of  barbarity.  Example : the 

Cavalry  Regulations  put  into  verse  by  M.  de  Bonnay. 

XXVII 

While  this  jealous  slave  feeds  his  soul  on  boredom, 
avarice,  hatred  and  other  such  poisonous,  cold  passions,  I 
spend  a night  of  happiness  dreaming  of  her — of  her  who, 
through  mistrust,  treats  me  badly. 

XXVIII 

It  needs  a great  soul  to  dare  have  a simple  style.  That 
is  why  Rousseau  put  so  much  rhetoric  into  the  Nouvelle 
Helo'ise — which  makes  it  unreadable  for  anyone  over 
thirty. 

XXIX 

“ The  greatest  reproach  we  could  possibly  make  against 
ourselves  is,  certainly,  to  have  let  fade,  like  the  shadowy 
phantoms  produced  by  sleep,  the  ideas  of  honour  and 
justice,  which  from  time  to  time  well  up  in  our  hearts.” 
(. Letter  from  Jena,  March,  1819.) 


274  ON  LOVE 

XXX 

A respectable  woman  is  in  the  country  and  passes  an 
hour  in  the  hot-house  with  her  gardener.  Certain  people, 
whose  views  she  has  upset,  accuse  her  of  having  found  a 
lover  in  this  gardener.  What  answer  is  there  ? 

Speaking  absolutely,  the  thing  is  possible.  She  could 
say  : “ My  character  speaks  for  me,  look  at  my  behaviour 
throughout  life  ” — only  all  this  is  equally  invisible  to  the 
eyes  of  the  ill-natured  who  won’t  see,  and  the  fools  who 
can’t.  (Salviati,  Rome,  July  23 rd,  1819.) 

XXXI 

I have  known  a man  find  out  that  his  rival’s  love  was 
returned,  and  yet  the  rival  himself  remain  blinded  to 
the  fact  by  his  passion. 

XXXII 

The  more  desperately  he  is  in  love,  the  more  violent 
the  pressure  a man  is  forced  to  put  upon  himself,  in  order 
to  risk  annoying  the  woman  he  loves  by  taking  her  hand. 

XXXIII 

Ludicrous  rhetoric  but,  unlike  that  of  Rousseau,  in- 
spired by  true  passion.  (Memoirs  of  M.  de  Mau  . . ., 
Letter  of  S .) 

XXXIV 

Naturalness 

I saw,  or  I thought  I saw,  this  evening  the  triumph  of 
naturalness  in  a young  woman,  who  certainly  seems  to 
me  to  possess  a great  character.  She  adores,  obviously, 
I think,  one  of  her  cousins  and  must  have  confessed  to 
herself  the  state  of  her  heart.  The  cousin  is  in  love  with 
her,  but  as  she  is  very  serious  with  him,  thinks  she  does 
not  like  him,  and  lets  himself  be  fascinated  by  the  marks 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


275 

of  preference  shown  him  b y Clara,  a young  widow  and 
friend  of  Melanie.  I think  he  will  marry  her.  Melanie 
sees  it  and  suffers  all  that  a proud  heart,  struggling  in- 
voluntarily with  a violent  passion,  is  capable  of  suffering. 
She  has  only  to  alter  her  ways  a little ; but  she  would 
look  upon  it  as  a piece  of  meanness,  the  consequences  of 
which  would  affect  her  whole  life,  to  depart  one  instant 
from  her  natural  self. 


XXXV 

Sappho  saw  in  love  only  sensual  intoxication  or  physical 
pleasure  made  sublime  by  crystallisation.  Anacreon 
looked  for  sensual  and  intellectual  amusement.  There 
was  too  little  security  in  Antiquity  for  people  to  find 
leisure  for  passion-love. 


XXXVI 

The  foregoing  fact  fully  justifies  me  in  rather  laughing 
at  people  who  think  Homer  superior  to  Tasso.  Passion- 
love  did  exist  in  the  time  of  Homer,  and  at  no  great 
distance  from  Greece. 


XXXVII 

Woman  with  a heart,  if  you  wish  to  know  whether  the 
man  you  adore  loves  you  with  passion-love,  study  your 
lover’s  early  youth.  Every  man  of  distinction  in  the 
early  days  of  his  life  is  either  a ridiculous  enthusiast  or 
an  unfortunate.  A man  easy  to  please,  of  gay  and  cheer- 
ful humour,  can  never  love  with  the  passion  your  heart 
requires. 

Passion  I call  only  that  which  has  gone  through  long 
misfortunes,  misfortunes  which  novels  take  good  care 
not  to  depict — what’s  more  they  can’t  ! 


276 


ON  LOVE 
XXXVIII 

A bold  resolution  can  change  in  an  instant  the  most 
extreme  misfortune  into  quite  a tolerable  state  of  things. 
The  evening  of  a defeat,  a man  is  retreating  in  hot 
haste,  his  charger  already  spent.  He  can  hear  dis- 
tinctly the  troop  of  cavalry  galloping  in  pursuit.  Sud- 
denly he  stops,  dismounts,  recharges  his  carbine  and 
pistols,  and  makes  up  his  mind  to  defend  himself. 
Straightway,  instead  of  having  death,  he  has  a cross  of 
the  Legion  of  Honour  before  his  eyes. 

XXXIX 

Basis  of  English  habits.  About  1730,  while  we  already 
had  Voltaire  and  Fontenelle,  a machine  was  invented  in 
England  to  separate  the  grain,  after  threshing,  from  the 
chaff.  It  worked  by  means  of  a wheel,  which  gave  the 
air  enough  movement  to  blow  away  the  bits  of  chaff. 
But  in  that  biblical  country  the  peasants  pretended  that 
it  was  wicked  to  go  against  the  will  of  Divine  Providence, 
and  to  produce  an  artificial  wind  like  this,  instead  of 
begging  Heaven  with  an  ardent  prayer  for  enough  wind 
to  thresh  the  corn  and  waiting  for  the  moment  ap- 
pointed by  the  God  of  Israel.  Compare  this  with 
French  peasants.1 

XL 

No  doubt  about  it — ’tis  a form  of  madness  to  expose 
oneself  to  passion-love.  In  some  cases,  however,  the  cure 

1 For  the  actual  state  of  English  habits,  see  the  Life  of  Mr.  Beattie, 
written  by  an  intimate  friend.  The  reader  will  be  edified  by  the  pro- 
found humility  of  Mr.  Beattie,  when  he  receives  ten  guineas  from  an  old 
Marchioness  in  order  to  slander  Hume.  The  trembling  aristocracy  relies 
on  the  bishops  with  incomes  of  £200,000,  and  pays  in  money  and  honour 
so-called  liberal  writers  to  throw  mud  at  Chenier.  ( Edinburgh  Review, 
1821.) 

The  most  disgusting  cant  leaks  through  on  all  sides.  Everything 
except  the  portrayal  of  primitive  and  energetic  feelings  is  stifled  by  it : 
impossible  to  write  a joyous  page  in  English. 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


277 

works  too  energetically.  American  girls  in  the  United 
States  are  so  saturated  and  fortified  with  reasonable  ideas, 
that  in  that  country  love,  the  flower  of  life,  has  deserted 
youth.  At  Boston  a girl  can  be  left  perfectly  safely  alone 
with  a handsome  stranger — in  all  probability  she’s  think- 
ing of  nothing  but  her  marriage  settlement. 

XLI 

In  France  men  who  have  lost  their  wives  are  melan- 
choly ; widows,  on  the  contrary,  merry  and  light- 
hearted. There  is  a proverb  current  among  women  on 
the  felicity  of  this  state.  So  there  must  be  some  in- 
equality in  the  articles  of  union. 

XLII 

People  who  are  happy  in  their  love  have  an  air  of  pro- 
found pre-occupation,  which,  for  a Frenchman,  is  the 
same  as  saying  an  air  of  profound  gloom.  (Dresden, 

1818.) 

XLIII 

The  more  generally  a man  pleases,  the  less  deeply  can 
he  please. 

XLIV 

As  a result  of  imitation  in  the  early  years  of  life,  we 
contract  the  passions  of  our  parents,  even  when  these 
very  passions  poison  our  life.  (L.’s  pride.) 

XLV 

The  most  honourable  source  of  feminine  pride  is  a 
woman’s  fear  of  degrading  herself  in  her  lover’s  eyes  by 
some  hasty  step  or  some  action  that  he  may  think  un- 
womanly. 


278 


ON  LOVE 
XLVI 

Real  love  renders  the  thought  of  death  frequent, 
agreeable,  unterrifying,  a mere  subject  of  comparison, 
the  price  we  are  willing  to  pay  for  many  a thing. 

XL  VII 

How  often  have  I exclaimed  for  all  my  bravery : “ If 
anyone  would  blow  out  my  brains,  I’d  thank  him  before 
I expired,  if  there  were  time.”  A man  can  only  be  brave, 
with  the  woman  he  loves,  by  loving  her  a little  less. 
(S.,  February , 1820.) 

XL  VIII 

“ I could  never  love  ! ” a young  woman  said  to  me. 
“ Mirabeau  and  his  letters  to  Sophie  have  given  me  a 
disgust  for  great  souls.  Those  fatal  letters  impressed 
me  like  a personal  experience.” 

Try  a plan  which  you  never  read  of  in  novels ; let 
two  years’  constancy  assure  you,  before  intimate  inter- 
course, of  your  lover’s  heart. 

XLIX 

Ridicule  scares  love.  Ridicule  is  impossible  in  Italy : 
what’s  good  form  in  Venice  is  odd  at  Naples — conse- 
quently nothing’s  odd  in  Italy.  Besides,  nothing  that 
gives  pleasure  is  found  fault  with.  ’Tis  this  that  does 
away  with  the  fool’s  honour  and  half  the  farce. 

L 

Children  command  by  tears,  and  if  people  do  not 
attend  to  their  wishes,  they  hurt  themselves  on  purpose. 
Young  women  are  piqued  from  a sense  of  honour. 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS  279 

LI 

’Tis  a common  reflection,  but  one  for  that  reason 
easily  forgotten,  that  every  day  sensitive  souls  become 
rarer,  cultured  minds  commoner. 

LII 

Feminine  Pride 

I have  just  witnessed  a striking  example — but  on 
mature  consideration  I should  need  fifteen  pages  to  give 
a proper  idea  of  it.  If  I dared,  I would  much  rather 
note  the  consequences ; my  eyes  have  convinced  me 
beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt.  But,  no,  it  is  a con- 
viction I must  give  up  all  idea  of  communicating,  there 
are  too  many  little  details.  Such  pride  is  the  opposite 
of  French  vanity.  So  far  as  I can  remember,  the  only 
work,  in  which  I have  seen  a sketch  of  it,  is  that  part  of 
Madame  Roland’s  Memoirs,  where  she  recounts  the 
petty  reasonings  she  made  as  a girl.  (Bologna,  April  iSth, 
2 a.m.) 

LIII 

In  France,  most  women  make  no  account  of  a young 
man  until  they  have  turned  him  into  a coxcomb.  It  is 
only  then  that  he  can  flatter  their  vanity.  (Duclos.) 

LIV 

Zilietti  said  to  me  at  midnight  (at  the  charming 
Marchesina  R . . . ’s)  : “ I’m  not  going  to  dine  at  San 
Michele  (an  inn).  Yesterday  I said  some  smart  things — 
I was  joking  with  Cl  ... ; it  might  make  me  con- 
spicuous.” 

Don’t  go  and  think  that  Zilietti  is  either  a fool  or  a 
coward.  He  is  a prudent  and  very  rich  man  in  this 
happy  land.  (Modena,  1820.) 


28o 


ON  LOVE 
LV 

What  is  admirable  in  America  is  the  government,  not 
society.  Elsewhere  government  does  the  harm.  At 
Boston  they  have  changed  parts,  and  government  plays 
the  hypocrite,  in  order  not  to  shock  society. 

LVI 

Italian  girls,  if  they  love,  are  entirely  given  over  to 
natural  inspiration.  At  the  very  most  all  that  can 
aid  them  is  a handful  of  excellent  maxims,  which 
they  have  picked  up  by  listening  at  the  keyhole.  As 
if  fate  had  decreed  that  everything  here  should  com- 
bine to  preserve  naturalness,  they  read  no  novels — and 
for  this  reason,  that  there  are  none.  At  Geneva  or  in 
France,  on  the  contrary,  a girls  falls  in  love  at  sixteen  in 
order  to  be  a heroine,  and  at  each  step,  almost  at  each 
tear,  she  asks  herself:  “Am  I not  just  like  Julie  d’litanges?” 

LVII 

The  husband  of  a young  woman  adored  by  a lover, 
whom  she  treats  unkindly  and  scarcely  allows  to  kiss  her 
hand,  has,  at  the  very  most,  only  the  grossest  physical 
pleasure,  where  the  lover  would  find  the  charms  and 
transports  of  the  keenest  happiness  that  exists  on  earth. 

LVIII 

The  laws  of  the  imagination  are  still  so  little  under- 
stood, that  I include  the  following  estimate,  though 
perhaps  it  is  all  quite  wrong. 

I seem  to  distinguish  two  sorts  of  imagination : — 

I.  Imagination  like  Fabio’s,  ardent,  impetuous,  in- 
considerate, leading  straight  to  action,  consuming  itself, 
and  already  languishing  at  a delay  of  twenty-four  hours. 
Impatience  is  its  prime  characteristic  ; it  becomes  en- 
raged against  that  which  it  cannot  obtain.  It  sees  all 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


281 


exterior  objects,  but  they  only  serve  to  inflame  it.  It 
assimilates  them  to  its  own  substance,  and  converts  them 
straight  away  to  the  profit  of  passion. 

2.  Imagination  which  takes  fire  slowly  and  little  by 
little,  but  which  loses  in  time  the  perception  of  exterior 
objects,  and  comes  to  find  occupation  and  nourishment 
in  nothing  but  its  own  passion.  This  last  sort  of  imagina- 
tion goes  quite  easily  with  slowness,  or  even  scarcity,  of 
ideas.  It  is  favourable  to  constancy.  It  is  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  greater  part  of  those  poor  German  girls,  who 
are  dying  of  love  and  consumption.  That  sad  spectacle, 
so  frequent  beyond  the  Rhine,  is  never  met  with  in  Italy. 

LIX 

Imaginative  habits.  A Frenchman  is  really  shocked  by 
eight  changes  of  scenery  in  one  act  of  a tragedy.  Such 
a man  is  incapable  of  pleasure  in  seeing  Macbeth.  He 
consoles  himself  by  damning  Shakespeare. 

LX 

In  France  the  provinces  are  forty  years  behind  Paris 
in  all  that  regards  women.  A.  C.,  a married  woman, 
tells  me  that  she  only  liked  to  read  certain  parts  of 
Lanzi’s  Memoirs.  Such  stupidity  is  too  much  for  me ; I 
can  no  longer  find  a word  to  say  to  her.  As  if  that  were 
a book  one  could  put  down  ! 

Want  of  naturalness — the  great  failing  in  provincial 
women. 

Their  effusive  and  gracious  gestures  ; those  who  play 
the  first  fiddle  in  the  town  are  worse  than  the  others. 

LXI 

Goethe,  or  any  other  German  genius,  esteems  money 
at  what  it’s  worth.  Until  he  has  got  an  income  of 
six  thousand  francs,  he  must  think  of  nothing  but  his 


282 


ON  LOVE 


banking-account.  After  that  he  must  never  think  of  it 
again.  The  fool,  on  his  side,  does  not  understand  the 
advantage  there  is  of  feeling  and  thinking  like  Goethe. 
All  his  life  he  feels  in  terms  of  money  and  thinks  of  sums 
of  money.  It  is  owing  to  this  support  from  both  sides, 
that  the  prosaic  in  this  world  seem  to  come  off  so  much 
better  than  the  high-minded. 

LXII 

In  Europe,  desire  is  inflamed  by  constraint  ; in  America 
it  is  dulled  by  liberty. 

LXIII 

A mania  for  discussion  has  got  hold  of  the  younger 
generation  and  stolen  it  from  love.  While  they  are 
considering  whether  Napoleon  was  of  service  to  France, 
they  let  the  age  of  love  speed  past.  Even  with  those 
who  mean  to  be  young,  it  is  all  affectation — a tie,  a spur, 
their  martial  swagger,  their  all-absorbing  self — and  they 
forget  to  cast  a glance  at  the  girl  who  passes  by  so 
modestly  and  cannot  go  out  more  than  once  a week 
through  want  of  means. 

LXIV 

I have  suppressed  a chapter  on  Prudery,  and  others  as 
well. 

I am  happy  to  find  the  following  passage  in  Horace 
Walpole’s  Memoirs : 

The  Two  Elizabeths.  Let  us  compare  the  daughters  of 
two  ferocious  men,  and  see  which  was  sovereign  of  a 
civilised  nation,  which  of  a barbarous  one.  Both  were 
Elizabeths.  The  daughter  of  Peter  (of  Russia)  was 
absolute,  yet  spared  a competitor  and  a rival ; and  thought 
the  person  of  an  empress  had  sufficient  allurements  for 
as  many  of  her  subjects  as  she  chose  to  honour  with  the 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS  283 

communication.  Elizabeth  of  England  could  neither 
forgive  the  claim  of  Mary  Stuart  nor  her  charms,  but  un- 
generously imprisoned  her  (as  George  IV  did  Napoleon1) 
when  imploring  protection,  and,  without  the  sanction  of 
either  despotism  or  law,  sacrificed  many  to  her  great 
and  little  jealousy.  Yet  this  Elizabeth  piqued  herself  on 
chastity ; and  while  she  practised  every  ridiculous  art 
of  coquetry  to  be  admired  at  an  unseemly  age,  kept  off 
lovers  whom  she  encouraged,  and  neither  gratified  her 
own  desires  nor  their  ambition.  Who  can  help  preferring 
the  honest,  open-hearted  barbarian  empress  ? (Lord 
Orford’s  Memoirs.) 

LXV 

Extreme  familiarity  may  destroy  crystallisation.  A 
charming  girl  of  sixteen  fell  in  love  with  a handsome 
youth  of  the  same  age,  who  never  failed  one  evening  to 
pass  under  her  window  at  nightfall.  Her  mother  invites 
him  to  spend  a week  with  them  in  the  country — a des- 
perate remedy,  I agree.  But  the  girl  was  romantic,  and 
the  youth  rather  dull : after  three  days  she  despised  him. 

LXVI 

Ave  Maria — twilight  in  Italy,  the  hour  of  tenderness, 
of  the  soul’s  pleasures  and  of  melancholy — sensation 
intensified  by  the  sound  of  those  lovely  bells. 

Hours  of  pleasure,  which  only  in  memory  touch  the 
senses.  . . . (Bologna,  April  17th,  1817.) 

LXVII 

A young  man’s  first  love-affair  on  entering  society  is 
ordinarily  one  of  ambition.  He  rarely  declares  his  love 
for  a sweet,  amiable  and  innocent  young  girl.  How 
tremble  before  her,  adore  her,  feel  oneself  in  the  presence 
of  a divinity  ? Youth  must  love  a being  whose  qualities 
lift  him  up  in  his  own  eyes.  It  is  in  the  decline  of  life 

[*  Added,  of  course,  by  Stendhal. — Tr.] 


ON  LOVE 


284 

that  we  sadly  come  back  to  love  the  simple  and  the 
innocent,  despairing  of  the  sublime.  Between  the  two 
comes  true  love,  which  thinks  of  nothing  but  itself. 

LXVIII 

The  existence  of  great  souls  is  not  suspected.  They 
hide  away  ; all  that  is  seen  is  a little  originality.  There 
are  more  great  souls  than  one  would  think. 

LXIX 

The  first  clasp  of  the  beloved’s  hand — what  a moment 
that  is  ! The  only  joy  to  be  compared  to  it  is  the  ravishing 
joy  of  power — which  statesmen  and  kings  make  pretence 
of  despising.  This  joy  also  has  its  crystallisation,  though 
it  demands  a colder  and  more  reasonable  imagination. 
Think  of  a man  whom,  a quarter  of  an  hour  ago,  Napoleon 
has  called  to  be  a minister. 

LXX 

The  celebrated  Johannes  von  Muller  (54)  said  to  me 
at  Cassel  in  1808 — Nature  has  given  strength  to  the 
North  and  wit  to  the  South. 

LXXI 

Nothing  more  untrue  than  the  maxim:  No  man  is 
a hero  before  his  valet.  Or,  rather,  nothing  truer  in  the 
monarchic  sense  of  the  word  hero — the  affected  hero,  like 
Hippolytus  in  Phedre.  Desaix,  for  example,  would  have 
been  a hero  even  before  his  valet  (it’s  true  I don’t  know 
if  he  had  one),  and  a still  greater  hero  for  his  valet  than 
for  anyone  else.  Turenne  and  Fenelon  might  each  have 
been  a Desaix,  but  for  “ good  form  ” and  the  neces- 
sary amount  of  force. 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS  285 

LXXII 

Here  is  blasphemy.  I,  a Dutchman,  dare  say  this : 
the  French  possess  neither  the  true  pleasures  of  conversa- 
tion nor  the  true  pleasures  of  the  theatre ; instead  of 
relaxation  and  complete  unrestraint,  they  mean  hard 
labour.  Among  the  sources  of  fatigue  which  hastened 
on  the  death  of  Mme.  de  Stael  I have  heard  counted  the 
strain  of  conversation  during  her  last  winter.1 

LXXII  I 

The  degree  of  tension  of  the  nerves  in  the  ear,  neces- 
sary to  hear  each  note,  explains  well  enough  the  physical 
part  of  one’s  pleasure  in  music. 

LXXIV 

What  degrades  rakish  women  is  the  opinion,  which  they 
share  with  the  public,  that  they  are  guilty  of  a great  sin. 

LXXV 

In  an  army  in  retreat,  warn  an  Italian  soldier  of  a 
danger  which  it  is  no  use  running — he’ll  almost  thank 
you  and  he’ll  carefully  avoid  it.  If,  from  kindness,  you 
point  out  the  same  danger  to  a French  soldier,  he’ll 
think  you’re  defying  him — his  sense  of  honour  is  piqued, 
and  he  runs  his  head  straight  against  it.  If  he  dared, 
he’d  like  to  jeer  at  you.  (Gyat,  1812.) 

LXXVI 

In  France,  any  idea  that  can  be  explained  only  in  the 
very  simplest  terms  is  sure  to  be  despised,  even  the  most 
useful.  The  Monitorial  system  (43),  invented  by  a 
Frenchman,  could  never  catch  on.  It  is  exactly  the 
opposite  in  Italy. 

1 Memoirs  of  Marmontel,  Montesquieu’s  conversation. 


286 


on  lovf: 


LXXVII 

Suppose  you  are  passionately  in  love  with  a woman 
and  that  your  imagination  has  not  run  dry.  One  evening 
she  is  tactless  enough  to  say,  looking  at  you  tenderly  and 
abashed  : “ Er — yes — come  to-morrow  at  midday  ; I 
shall  be  in  to  no  one  but  you.”  You  cannot  sleep  ; you 
cannot  think  of  anything  ; the  morning  is  torture.  At 
last  twelve  o’clock  strikes,  and  every  stroke  of  the  clock 
seems  to  clash  and  clang  on  your  heart. 

LXXVII  I 

In  love,  to  share  money  is  to  increase  love,  to  give  it 
is  to  kill  love. 

You  are  putting  off  the  present  difficulty,  and  the 
odious  fear  of  want  in  the  future  ; or  rather  you  are 
sowing  the  seeds  of  policy,  of  the  feeling  of  being  two. — 
You  destroy  sympathy. 


LXXIX 

Court  ceremonies  involuntarily  call  to  mind  scenes 
from  Aretine — the  way  the  women  display  their  bare 
shoulders,  like  officers  their  uniform,  and,  for  all  their 
charms,  make  no  more  sensation  ! 

There  you  see  what  in  a mercenary  way  all  will  do  to 
win  a man’s  approval ; there  you  see  a whole  world  act- 
ing without  morality  and,  what’s  more,  without  passion. 
All  this  added  to  the  presence  of  the  women  with  their 
very  low  dresses  and  their  expression  of  malice,  greeting 
with  a sardonic  smile  everything  but  selfish  advantage 
payable  in  the  hard  cash  of  solid  pleasures — why  ! it 
gives  the  idea  of  scenes  from  the  Bagno.  It  drives  far 
away  all  doubts  suggested  by  virtue  or  the  conscious 
satisfaction  of  a heart  at  peace  with  itself.  Yet  I have 
seen  the  feeling  of  isolation  amidst  all  this  dispose  gentle 
hearts  to  love.  ( Mars  at  the  Tuileries,  1 8 1 1 .) 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS  287 

LXXX 

A soul  taken  up  with  bashfulness  and  the  effort  to 
suppress  it,  is  incapable  of  pleasure.  Pleasure  is  a luxury 
— to  enjoy  it,  security  is  essential  and  must  run  no  risks. 

LXXX  I 

A test  of  love  in  which  mercenary  women  cannot 
disguise  their  feelings. — “ Do  you  feel  real  delight  in 
reconciliation  or  is  it  only  the  thought  of  what  you’ll 
gain  by  it  ? ” 

LXXXII 

The  poor  things  who  fill  La  Trappe  (55)  are  wretches 
who  have  not  had  quite  enough  courage  to  kill  themselves. 
I except,  of  course,  the  heads,  who  find  pleasure  in  being 
heads. 

LXXXII  I 

It  is  a misfortune  to  have  known  Italian  beauty : you 
lose  your  sensibility.  Out  of  Italy,  you  prefer  the 
conversation  of  men. 

LXXXIV 

Italian  prudence  looks  to  the  preservation  of  life,  and 
this  allows  free  play  to  the  imagination.  (Cf.  a version 
of  the  death  of  Pertica  the  famous  comic  actor,  December 
24th,  1821.)  On  the  other  hand,  English  prudence, 
wholly  relative  to  the  gain  and  safe-keeping  of  just 
enough  money  to  cover  expenses,  demands  detailed  and 
everyday  exactitude,  and  this  habit  paralyses  the  im- 
agination. Notice  also  how  enormously  it  strengthens 
the  conception  of  duty. 

LXXXV 

The  immense  respect  for  money,  which  is  the  first 
and  foremost  vice  of  Englishmen  and  Italians,  is  less  felt 


288  ON  LOVE 

in  France  and  reduced  to  perfectly  rational  limits  in 
Germany. 

LXXXVI  . 

French  women,  having  never  known  the  happiness  of 
true  passion,  are  anything  but  exacting  over  internal 
domestic  happiness  and  the  everyday  side  of  life. 
(Compiepne.) 

LXXXVI  I 

“ You  talk  to  me  of  ambition  for  driving  away  bore- 
dom,” said  Kamensky  : “ but  all  the  time  I used  to  gallop 
a couple  of  leagues  every  evening,  for  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  the  Princess  at  Kolich,  I was  on  terms  of  intimacy 
with  a despot  whom  I respected,  who  had  my  whole  good 
fortune  in  his  power  and  the  satisfaction  of  all  my  possible 
desires.” 

LXXXVI  1 1 

Pretty  contrast  ! On  the  one  hand — perfection  in  the 
little  niceties  of  worldly  wisdom  and  of  dress,  great 
kindliness,  want  of  genius,  daily  cult  of  a thousand  and 
one  petty  observances,  and  incapacity  for  three  days’ 
attention  to  the  same  event : on  the  other — puritan 
severity,  biblical  cruelty,  strict  probity,  timid,  morbid 
self-love  and  universal  cant  ! And  yet  these  are  the  two 
foremost  nations  of  the  world. 

LXXXIX 

As  among  princesses  there  has  been  an  Empress 
Catherine  II,  why  should  a female  Samuel  Bernard  (56), 
or  a Lagrange  (57)  not  appear  among  the  middle-class  ? 

XC 

Alviza  calls  this  an  unpardonable  want  of  refinement — 
to  dare  to  make  love  by  letter  to  a woman  you  adore  and 
who  looks  at  you  tenderly,  but  declares  that  she  can  never 
love  you. 


289 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 
XCI 

It  was  a mistake  of  the  greatest  philosopher  that 
France  has  had,  not  to  have  stayed  in  some  Alpine 
solitude,  in  some  remote  abode,  thence  to  launch  his 
book  on  Paris  without  ever  coming  there  himself  (58). 
Seeing  Helvetius  so  simple  and  straightforward,  un- 
natural, hot-house  people  like  Suard,  Marmontel  or 
Diderot  could  never  imagine  they  had  a great  philo- 
sopher before  them.  They  were  perfectly  honest  in 
their  contempt  for  his  profound  reason.  First  of  all,  it 
was  simple — a fault  unpardonable  in  France  ; secondly, 
the  author,  not,  of  course,  his  book,  was  lowered  in 
value  by  this  weakness — the  extreme  importance  he 
attached  to  getting  what  in  France  is  called  glory,  to 
being,  like  Balzac,  Voiture  or  Fontenelle,  the  fashion 
among  his  contemporaries. 

Rousseau  had  too  much  feeling  and  too  little  logic, 
Buffon,  in  his  Botanical  Garden,  was  too  hypocritical,  and 
Voltaire  too  paltry  to  be  able  to  judge  the  principle 
of  Helvetius. 

Helvetius  was  guilty  of  a little  slip  in  calling  this 
principle  interest , instead  of  giving  it  a pretty  name  like 
pleasure  j1  but  what  are  we  to  think  of  a nation’s 
literature,  which  shows  its  sense  by  letting  itself  be 
led  astray  by  a fault  so  slight  ? 

The  ordinary  clever  man,  Prince  Eugene  of  Savoy  for 
example,  finding  himself  in  the  position  of  Regulus, 
would  have  stayed  quietly  at  Rome,  and  even  laughed  at 
the  stupidity  of  the  Carthaginian  Senate.  Regulus  goes 
back  to  Carthage.  Prince  Eugene  would  have  been 
prosecuting  his  own  interest,  and  in  exactly  the  same  way 
Regulus  was  prosecuting  his. 

All  through  life  a noble  spirit  is  seeing  possibilities 

1 Torva  leoena  lupum  sequitur,  lupus  ipse  capellam  ; 

Florentem  cytisum  sequitur  lasciva  capella. 

....  Trahit  sua  quemque  voluptas.  (Virgil,  Eclogue  II.) 

u 


290 


ON  LOVE 


of  action,  of  which  a common  spirit  can  form  no 
idea.  The  very  second  the  possibility  of  that  action 
becomes  visible  to  the  noble  spirit,  it  is  its  interest 
thus  to  act. 

If  this  noble  spirit  did  not  perform  the  action,  which 
it  has  just  perceived,  it  would  despise  itself — it  would  be 
unhappy.  Man’s  duties  are  in  the  ratio  of  his  moral 
range.  The  principle  of  Helvetius  holds  good,  even  in 
the  wildest  exaltations  of  love,  even  in  suicide.  It  is 
contrary  to  his  nature,  it  is  an  impossibility  for  a man  not 
to  do,  always  and  at  any  moment  you  choose  to  take,  that 
which  is  possible  and  which  gives  him  most  pleasure  at 
that  moment  to  do. 


XCII 

To  have  firmness  of  character  means  to  have  experi- 
enced the  influence  of  others  on  oneself.  Therefore 
others  are  necessary. 

XCIII 

Ancient  Love 

No  posthumous  love-letters  of  Roman  ladies  have  been 
printed.  Petronius  has  written  a charming  book,  but  it 
is  only  debauch  that  he  has  painted. 

For  love  at  Rome,  apart  from  Virgil’s  story  of  Dido1 
and  his  second  Eclogue,  we  have  no  evidence  more 
precise  than  the  writings  of  the  three  great  poets,  Ovid, 
Tibullus  and  Propertius. 

Now,  Parny’s  Elegies  or  Colardeau’s  Letter  of  Hel'iose  to 
Abelard  are  pictures  of  a very  imperfect  and  vague  kind, 
if  you  compare  them  to  some  of  the  letters  in  the  Nouvelle 
Helo'ise , to  those  of  the  Portuguese  Nun,  of  Mademoi- 
selle de  Lespinasse,  of  Mirabeau’s  Sophie,  of  Werther, 
etc.,  etc. 

1 Mark  Dido’s  look  in  the  superb  sketch  bp  M,  Guerin  st  the  Luxem- 
bourg, 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


291 

Poetry,  with  its  obligatory  comparisons,  its  mythology 
in  which  the  poet  doesn’t  believe,  its  dignity  of  style  a la 
Louis  XIV,  and  all  its  superfluous  stock  of  ornaments 
called  poetical,  is  very  inferior  to  prose  when  it  comes 
to  a question  of  giving  a clear  and  precise  idea  of  the 
working  of  the  heart.  And,  in  this  class  of  writing, 
clearness  alone  is  effective. 

Tibullus,  Ovid  and  Propertius  had  better  taste  than 
our  poets ; they  have  painted  love  such  as  it  was  to  be 
found  among  the  proud  citizens  of  Rome : moreover, 
they  lived  under  Augustus,  who,  having  shut  the 
temple  of  Janus,  sought  to  debase  these  citizens  to  the 
condition  of  the  loyal  subjects  of  a monarchy. 

The  mistresses  of  these  three  great  poets  were  coquettes, 
faithless  and  venal  women  ; in  their  company  the  poets 
only  sought  physical  pleasure,  and  never,  I should  think, 
caught  a glimpse  of  the  sublime  sentiments1  which, 
thirteen  centuries  later,  stirred  the  heart  of  the  gentle 
Heloise. 

I borrow  the  following  passage  from  a distinguished 
man  of  letters,2  and  one  who  knows  the  Latin  poets  much 
better  than  I do : — 

The  brilliant  genius  of  Ovid,  the  rich  imagination  of  Proper- 
tius, the  impressionable  heart  of  Tibullus,  doubtless  inspired 
them  with  verses  of  a different  flavour,  but  all,  in  the  same  man- 
ner, they  loved  women  of  much  the  same  kind.  They  desire, 
they  triumph,  they  have  fortunate  rivals,  they  are  jealous,  they 
quarrel  and  make  it  up  ; they  are  faithless  in  their  turn,  they  are 
forgiven  ; and  they  recover  their  happiness  only  to  be  ruffled  by 
the  return  of  the  same  mischances. 

Corinna  is  married.  The  first  lessons  that  Ovid  gives  her  are 
to  teach  her  the  address  with  which  to  deceive  her  husband  : 
the  signs  they  are  to  make  each  other  before  him  and  in  society, 

1 Everything  that  is  beautiful  in  the  world  having  become  a part  of 
the  beauty  of  the  woman  you  love,  you  find  yourself  inclined  to  do  every- 
thing in  the  world  that  is  beautiful. 

* Guinguene’s  Histoire  litUraire  de  I’Jtalie  (Vol.  II,  p.  490.) 


ON  LOVE 


292 

so  that  they  can  understand  each  other  and  be  understood  only  by 
themselves.  Enjoyment  quickly  follows ; afterwards  quarrels,  and, 
what  you  wouldn’t  expect  from  so  gallant  a man  as  Ovid,  insults 
and  blows  ; then  excuses,  tears  and  forgiveness.  Sometimes  he 
addresses  himself  to  subordinates — to  the  servants,  to  his  mistress’ 
porter,  who  is  to  open  to  him  at  night,  to  a cursed  old  beldam  who 
corrupts  her  and  teaches  her  to  sell  herself  for  gold,  to  an  old 
eunuch  who  keeps  watch  over  her,  to  a slave-girl  who  is  to  convey 
the  tablets  in  which  he  begs  for  a rendezvous.  The  rendezvous 
is  refused  : he  curses  his  tablets,  that  have  had  such  sorry  fortune. 
Fortune  shines  brighter  : he  adjures  the  dawn  not  to  come  to 
interrupt  his  happiness. 

Soon  he  accuses  himself  of  numberless  infidelities,  of  his 
indiscriminate  taste  for  women.  A moment  after,  Corinna  is 
herself  faithless ; he  cannot  bear  the  idea  that  he  has  given  her 
lessons  from  which  she  reaps  the  profit  with  someone  else.  Corinna 
in  her  turn  is  jealous ; she  abuses  him  like  a fury  rather  than  a 
gentle  woman  ; she  accuses  him  of  loving  a slave-girl.  He  swears 
that  there  is  nothing  in  it  and  writes  to  the  slave — yet  every- 
thing that  made  Corinna  angry  was  true.  But  how  did  she  get 
to  know  of  it  ? What  clue  had  led  to  their  betrayal  ? He  asks 
the  slave-girl  for  another  rendezvous.  If  she  refuse  him,  he 
threatens  to  confess  everything  to  Corinna.  He  jokes  with  a 
friend  about  his  two  loves  and  the  trouble  and  pleasure  they  give 
him.  Soon  after,  it  is  Corinna  alone  that  fills  his  thoughts.  She 
is  everything  to  him.  He  sings  his  triumph,  as  if  it  were  his  first 
victory.  After  certain  incidents,  which  for  more  than  one  reason 
we  must  leave  in  Ovid,  and  others,  which  it  would  be  too  long  to 
recount,  he  discovers  that  Corinna’s  husband  has  become  too  lax. 
He  is  no  longer  jealous ; our  lover  does  not  like  this,  and  threatens 
to  leave  the  wife,  if  the  husband  does  not  resume  his  jealousy.  The 
husband  obeys  him  but  too  well ; he  has  Corinna  watched  so 
closely,  that  Ovid  can  no  longer  come  to  her.  He  complains  of 
this  close  watch,  which  he  had  himself  provoked — but  he  will  find 
a way  to  get  round  it.  Unfortunately,  he  is  not  the  only  one  to  suc- 
ceed therein.  Corinna’s  infidelities  begin  again  and  multiply ; her 
intrigues  become  so  public,  that  the  only  boon  that  Ovid  can 
crave  of  her,  is  that  she  will  take  some  trouble  to  deceive  him,  and 
show  a little  less  obviously  what  she  really  is.  Such  were  the 
morals  of  Ovid  and  his  mistress,  such  is  the  character  of  their  love. 

Cynthia  is  the  first  love  of  Propertius,  and  she  will  be  his  last. 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS  293 

No  sooner  is  he  happy,  but  he  is  jealous.  Cynthia  is  too  fond  of 
dress  ; he  begs  her  to  shun  luxury  and  to  love  simplicity.  He 
himself  is  given  up  to  more  than  one  kind  of  debauch.  Cynthia 
expects  him  ; he  only  comes  to  her  at  dawn,  leaving  a banquet  in 
his  cups.  He  finds  her  asleep  ; it  is  a long  time  before  she  wakes, 
in  spite  of  the  noise  he  makes  and  even  of  his  kisses  ; at  last  she 
opens  her  eyes  and  reproaches  him  as  he  deserves.  A friend  tries 
to  detach  him  from  Cynthia  ; he  gives  his  friend  a eulogy  of  her 
beauty  and  talents.  He  is  threatened  with  losing  her  ; she  goes 
off  with  a soldier  ; she  means  to  follow  the  army  ; she  will  expose 
herself  to  every  danger  in  order  to  follow  her  soldier.  Propertius 
does  not  storm  ; he  weeps  and  prays  heaven  for  her  happiness. 
He  will  never  leave  the  house  she  has  deserted  ; he  will  look  out 
for  strangers  who  have  seen  her,  and  will  never  leave  off  asking 
them  for  news  of  Cynthia.  She  is  touched  by  love  so  great.  She 
deserts  the  soldier  and  stays  with  the  poet.  He  gives  thanks  to 
Apollo  and  the  Muses  ; he  is  drunk  with  his  happiness.  This 
happiness  is  soon  troubled  by  a new  access  of  jealousy,  inter- 
rupted by  separation  and  by  absence.  Far  from  Cynthia,  he  can 
only  think  of  her.  Her  past  infidelities  make  him  fear  for  news. 
Death  does  not  frighten  him,  he  only  fears  to  lose  Cynthia  ; let 
him  be  but  certain  that  she  will  be  faithful  and  he  will  go  down 
without  regret  to  the  grave. 

After  more  treachery,  he  fancies  he  is  delivered  from  his  love  ; 
but  soon  he  is  again  in  its  bonds.  He  paints  the  most  ravishing 
portrait  of  his  mistress,  her  beauty,  the  elegance  of  her  dress, 
her  talents  in  singing,  poetry  and  dancing  ; everything  redoubles 
and  justifies  his  love.  But  Cynthia,  as  perverse  as  she  is  captivating, 
dishonours  herself  before  the  whole  town  by  such  scandalous 
adventures  that  Propertius  can  no  longer  love  her  without  shame. 
He  blushes,  but  he  cannot  shake  her  off.  Pie  will  be  her  lover, 
her  husband  ; he  will  never  love  any  but  Cynthia.  They  part 
and  come  together  again.  Cynthia  is  jealous,  he  reassures  her. 
He  will  never  love  any  other  woman.  But  in  fact  it  is  never  one 
woman  he  loves — it  is  all  women.  He  never  has  enough  of  them, 
he  is  insatiable  of  pleasure.  To  recall  him  to  himself,  Cynthia 
has  to  desert  him  yet  again.  Then  his  complaints  are  as  vigorous 
as  if  he  had  never  been  faithless  himself.  He  tries  to  escape.  He 
seeks  distraction  in  debauch. — Is  he  drunk  as  usual  ? He  pretends 
that  a troupe  of  loves  meets  him  and  brings  him  back  to  Cynthia’s 
feet.  Reconciliation  is  followed  by  more  storms.  Cynthia,  at  one 


ON  LOVE 


294 

of  their  supper  parties,  gets  heated  with  wine  like  himself,  upsets 
the  table  and  hits  him  over  the  head.  Propertius  thinks  this 
charming.  More  perfidy  forces  him  at  last  to  break  his  chains  ; 
he  tries  to  go  away  ; he  means  to  travel  in  Greece  ; he  completes 
all  his  plans  for  the  journey,  but  he  renounces  the  project — and 
all  in  order  to  see  himself  once  more  the  butt  of  new  outrages. 
Cynthia  does  not  confine  herself  to  betraying  him  ; she  makes 
him  the  laughing-stock  of  his  rivals.  But  illness  seizes  her  and 
she  dies.  She  reproaches  him  with  his  faithlessness,  his  caprices 
and  his  desertion  of  her  in  her  last  moments,  and  swears  that  she 
herself,  in  spite  of  appearances,  was  always  faithful. 

Such  are  the  morals  and  adventures  of  Propertius  and  his 
mistress  ; such  in  abstract  is  the  history  of  their  love.  Such  was 
the  woman  that  a soul  like  Propertius  was  reduced  to  loving. 

Ovid  and  Propertius  were  often  faithless,  but  never  inconstant. 
Confirmed  libertines,  they  distribute  their  homage  far  and  wide, 
but  always  return  to  take  up  the  same  chains  again.  Corinna 
and  Cynthia  have  womankind  for  rivals,  but  no  woman  in  par- 
ticular. The  Muse  of  these  two  poets  is  faithful,  if  their  love  is 
not,  and  no  other  names  besides  those  of  Corinna  and  of  Cynthia 
figure  in  their  verses.  Tibullus,  a tender  lover  and  tender  poet, 
less  lively  and  less  headlong  in  his  tastes,  has  not  their  constancy. 
Three  beauties  are  one  after  the  other  the  objects  of  his  love  and 
of  his  verses.  Delia  is  the  first,  the  most  celebrated  and  also  the 
best  beloved.  Tibullus  has  lost  his  fortune,  but  he  still  has  the 
country  and  Delia.  To  enjoy  her  amid  the  peaceful  fields  ; to 
be  able,  at  his  ease,  to  press  Delia’s  hand  in  his ; to  have  her 
for  his  only  mourner  at  his  funeral — he  makes  no  other  prayers. 
Delia  is  kept  shut  up  by  a jealous  husband  ; he  will  penetrate  into 
her  prison,  in  spite  of  any  Argus  and  triple  bolts.  He  will  forget 
all  his  troubles  in  her  arms.  He  falls  ill  and  Delia  alone  fills  his 
thoughts.  Pie  exhorts  her  to  be  always  chaste,  to  despise  gold, 
and  to  grant  none  but  him  the  love  she  has  granted  him.  But 
Delia  does  not  follow  his  advice.  He  thought  he  could  put  up 
with  her  infidelity  ; but  it  is  too  much  for  him  and  he  begs  Delia 
and  Venus  for  pity.  He  seeks  in  wine  a remedy  and  does  not 
find  it  ; he  can  neither  soften  his  regret  nor  cure  himself  of  his 
love.  He  turns  to  Delia’s  husband,  deceived  like  himself,  and 
reveals  to  him  all  the  tricks  she  uses  to  attract  and  see  her  lovers. 
If  the  husband  does  not  know  how  to  keep  watch  over  her,  let 
her  be  trusted  to  himself ; he  will  manage  right  enough  to  ward 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


295 

the  lovers  off  and  to  keep  from  their  toils  the  author  of  their 
common  wrongs.  He  is  appeased  and  returns  to  her ; he  remem- 
bers Delia’s  mother  who  favoured  their  love  ; the  memory  of 
this  good  woman  opens  his  heart  once  more  to  tender  thoughts, 
and  all  Delia’s  wrongs  are  forgotten.  But  she  is  soon  guilty  of 
others  more  serious.  She  lets  herself  be  corrupted  by  gold  and 
presents  ; she  gives  herself  to  another,  to  others.  At  length 
Tibullus  breaks  his  shameful  chains  and  says  good-bye  to  her  for 
ever. 

He  passes  under  the  sway  of  Nemesis  and  is  no  happier  ; she 
loves  only  gold  and  cares  little  for  poetry  and  the  gifts  of  genius. 
Nemesis  is  a greedy  woman  who  sells  herself  to  the  highest  bidder  ; 
lie  curses  her  avarice,  but  he  loves  her  and  cannot  live  unless  she 
loves  him.  He  tries  to  move  her  with  touching  images.  She  has 
lost  her  young  sister  ; he  will  go  and  weep  on  her  tomb  and 
confide  his  grief  to  her  dumb  ashes.  The  shade  of  her  sister  will 
take  offence  at  the  tears  that  Nemesis  causes  to  flow.  She  must 
not  despise  her  anger.  The  sad  image  of  her  sister  might  come 
at  night  to  trouble  her  sleep.  . . . But  these  sad  memories  force 
tears  from  Nemesis — and  at  that  price  he  could  not  buy  even 
happiness.  Neaera  is  his  third  mistress.  He  has  long  enjoyed  her 
love  ; he  only  prays  the  gods  that  he  may  live  and  die  with  her  ; 
but  she  leaves  him,  she  is  gone  ; he  can  only  think  of  her,  she 
is  his  only  prayer  ; he  has  seen  in  a dream  Apollo,  who  announces 
to  him  that  Neaera  is  unfaithful.  He  refuses  to  believe  this  dream  ; 
he  could  not  survive  his  misfortune,  and  none  the  less  the  mis- 
fortune is  there.  Neaera  is  faithless ; once  more  Tibullus  is 
deserted.  Such  was  his  character  and  fortune,  such  is  the  triple 
and  all  unhappy  story  of  his  loves. 

In  him  particularly  there  is  a sweet,  all-pervading  melancholy, 
that  gives  even  to  his  pleasures  the  tone  of  dreaminess  and  sadness 
which  constitutes  his  charm.  If  any  poet  of  antiquity  introduced 
moral  sensibility  into  love,  it  was  Tibullus  ; but  these  fine  shades 
of  feeling  which  he  expresses  so  well,  are  in  himself ; he  expects 
no  more  than  the  other  two  to  find  them  or  engender  them  in  his 
mistresses.  Their  grace,  their  beauty  is  all  that  inflames  him  ; 
their  favours  all  he  desires  or  regrets  ; their  perfidy,  their  venality, 
their  loss,  all  that  torments  him.  Of  all  these  women,  celebrated 
in  the  verses  of  three  great  poets,  Cynthia  seems  the  most  lovable. 
The  attraction  of  talent  is  joined  to  all  the  others  ; she  cultivates 
singing  and  poetry ; and  yet  all  these  talents,  which  were  found 


ON  LOVE 


296 

not  infrequently  in  courtesans  of  a certain  standing,  were  of  no 
avail — it  was  none  the  less  pleasure,  gold  and  wine  which  ruled 
her.  And  Propertius,  who  boasts  only  once  or  twice  of  her 
artistic  tastes,  in  his  passion  for  her  is  none  the  less  seduced  by 
a very  different  power  ! 

These  great  poets  are  apparently  to  be  numbered  among 
the  most  tender  and  refined  souls  of  their  century — well ! 
this  is  how  they  loved  and  whom.  We  must  here  put 
literary  considerations  on  one  side.  I only  ask  of  them 
evidence  concerning  their  century;  and  in  two  thousand 
years  a novel  by  Ducray-Duminil  (59)  will  be  evidence 
concerning  the  annals  of  ours. 

XCIII  (b) 

One  of  my  great  regrets  is  not  to  have  been  able  to 
see  Venice  in  1760.1  A run  of  happy  chances  had  ap- 
parently united,  in  so  small  a space,  both  the  political 
institutions  and  the  public  opinion  that  are  most  favour- 
able to  the  happiness  of  mankind.  A soft  spirit  of  luxury 
gave  everyone  an  easy  access  to  happiness.  There  were 
no  domestic  struggles  and  no  crimes.  Serenity  was  seen 
on  every  face  ; no  one  thought  about  seeming  richer 
than  he  was  ; hypocrisy  had  no  point.  I imagine  it 
must  have  been  the  direct  contrary  to  London  in  1822. 

XCIV 

If  in  the  place  of  the  want  of  personal  security  you 
put  the  natural  fear  of  economic  want,  you  will  see  that 
the  United  States  of  America  bears  a considerable 
resemblance  to  the  ancient  world  as  regards  that  passion, 
on  which  we  are  attempting  to  write  a monograph. 

In  speaking  of  the  more  or  less  imperfect  sketches  of 
passion-love  which  the  ancients  have  left  us,  I see  that  I 
have  forgotten  the  Loves  of  Medea  in  the  Argonautica 

1 Travels  in  Italy  of  the  President  de  Brasses,  Travels  of  Eustace,  Sharp, 
Smollett. 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


197 

(60).  Virgil  copied  them  in  his  picture  of  Dido.  Com- 
pare that  with  love  as  seen  in  a modern  novel — Le  Doyen 
de  Killerine , for  example. 


xcv 

The  Roman  feels  the  beauties  of  Nature  and  Art  with 
amazing  strength,  depth  and  justice  ; but  if  he  sets 
out  to  try  and  reason  on  what  he  feels  so  forcibly,  it  is 
pitiful. 

The  reason  may  be  that  his  feelings  come  to  him  from 
Nature,  but  his  logic  from  government. 

You  can  see  at  once  why  the  fine  arts,  outside  Italy, 
are  only  a farce  ; men  reason  better,  but  the  public  has 
no  feeling. 

XCVI 

London,  November  20 th,  1821. 

A very  sensible  man,  who  arrived  yesterday  from 
Madras,  told  me  in  a two  hours’  conversation  what  I 
reduce  to  the  following  few  lines : — 

This  gloom,  which  from  an  unknown  cause  depresses  the  English 
character,  penetrates  so  deeply  into  their  heart?,  that  at  the  end 
of  the  world,  at  Madras,  no  sooner  does  an  Englishman  get  a few 
days’  holiday,  than  he  quickly  leaves  rich  and  flourishingMadras  and 
comes  to  revive  his  spirits  in  the  little  French  town  of  Pondicherry, 
which,  without  wealth  and  almost  without  commerce,  flourishes 
under  the  paternal  administration  of  M.  Dupuy.  At  Madras 
you  drink  Burgundy  that  costs  thirty-six  francs  a bottle  ; the 
poverty  of  the  French  in  Pondicherry  is  such  that,  in  the  most 
distinguished  circles,  the  refreshments  consist  of  large  glasses 
of  water.  But  in  Pondicherry  they  laugh. 

At  present  there  is  more  liberty  in  England  than  in 
Prussia.  The  climate  is  the  same  as  that  of  Koenigsberg, 
Berlin  or  Warsaw,  cities  which  are  far  from  being 
famous  for  their  gloom.  The  working  classes  in  these 
towns  have  less  security  and  drink  quite  as  little  wine  as 
in  England  ; and  they  are  much  worse  clothed. 


298  ON  LOVE 

The  aristocracies  of  Venice  and  Vienna  are  not 
gloomy. 

I can  see  only  one  point  of  difference  : in  gay  countries 
the  Bible  is  little  read,  and  there  is  gallantry.  I am  sorry 
to  have  to  come  back  so  often  to  a demonstration  with 
which  I am  unsatisfied.  I suppress  a score  of  facts 
pointing  in  the  same  direction. 

XCVII 

I have  just  seen,  in  a fine  country-house  near  Paris,  a 
very  good-looking,  very  clever,  and  very  rich  young  man 
of  less  than  twenty  ; he  has  been  left  there  by  chance 
almost  alone,  for  a long  time  too,  with  a most  beautiful 
girl  of  eighteen,  full  of  talent,  of  a most  distinguished 
mind,  and  also  very  rich.  Who  wouldn’t  have  expected  a 
passionate  love-affair  ? Not  a bit  of  it — such  was  the 
affectation  of  these  two  charming  creatures  that  both 
were  occupied  solely  with  themselves  and  the  effect  they 
were  to  produce. 


XCVIII 

I am  ready  to  agree  that  on  the  morrow  of  a great 
action  a savage  pride  has  made  this  people  fall  into  all 
the  faults  and  follies  that  lay  open  to  it.  But  you  will 
see  what  prevents  me  from  effacing  my  previous  praises 
of  this  representative  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

The  prettiest  woman  in  Narbonne  is  a young  Spaniard, 
scarcely  twenty  years  old,  who  lives  there  very  retired 
with  her  husband,  a Spaniard  also,  and  an  officer  on  half- 
pay. Some  time  ago  there  was  a fool  whom  this  officer 
was  obliged  to  insult.  The  next  day,  on  the  field  of 
combat,  the  fool  sees  the  young  Spanish  woman  arrive. 
He  begins  a renewed  flow  of  affected  nothings : — 

“ No,  indeed,  it’s  shocking  ! How  could  you  tell  your 
wife  about  it  ? You  see,  she  has  come  to  prevent  us 
fighting  ! ” “I  have  come  to  bury  you,”  she  answered. 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


499 

Happy  the  husband  who  can  tell  his  wife  everything  ! 
The  result  did  not  belie  this  woman’s  haughty  words. 
Her  action  would  have  been  considered  hardly  the  thing 
in  England.  Thus  does  false  decency  diminish  the 
little  happiness  that  exists  here  below. 

XCIX 

The  delightful  Donezan  said  yesterday : “ In  my 
youth,  and  well  on  in  my  career — for  I was  fifty  in  ’89 — 
women  wore  powder  in  their  hair. 

“ I own  that  a woman  without  powder  gives  me  a 
feeling  of  repugnance  ; the  first  impression  is  always  that 
of  a chamber-maid  who  hasn’t  had  time  to  get  dressed.” 

Here  we  have  the  one  argument  against  Shakespeare 
and  in  favour  of  the  dramatic  unities. 

While  young  men  read  nothing  but  La  Harpe  (61), 
the  taste  for  great  powdered  toupees,  such  as  the  late 
Queen  Marie  Antoinette  used  to  wear,  can  still  last  some 
years.  I know  people  too,  who  despise  Correggio  and 
Michael  Angelo,  and,  to  be  sure,  M.  Donezan  was  ex- 
tremely clever. 

c 

Cold,  brave,  calculating,  suspicious,  contentious,  for 
ever  afraid  of  being  attracted  by  anyone  who  might 
possibly  be  laughing  at  them  in  secret,  absolutely  devoid 
of  enthusiasm,  and  a little  jealous  of  people  who  saw 
great  events  with  Napoleon,  such  was  the  youth  of  that 
age,  estimable  rather  than  lovable.  They  forced  on  the 
country  that  Right-Centre  form  of  government-to-the- 
lowest-bidder.  This  temper  in  the  younger  generation 
was  to  be  found  even  among  the  conscripts,  each  of 
whom  only  longed  to  finish  his  time. 

All  systems  of  education,  whether  given  expressly  or 
by  chance,  form  men  for  a certain  period  in  their  life. 


ON  LOVE 


300 

The  education  of  the  age  of  Louis  XV  made  twenty-five 
the  finest  moment  in  the  lives  of  its  pupils.1 

It  is  at  forty  that  the  young  men  of  this  period  will 
be  at  their  best  ; they  will  have  lost  their  suspiciousness 
and  pretensions,  and  have  gained  ease  and  gaiety. 

Cl 

Discussion  between  an  Honest  Man 
and  an  Academic 

“ In  this  discussion,  the  academic  always  saved  himself 
by  fixing  on  little  dates  and  other  similar  errors  of  small 
importance  ; but  the  consequences  and  natural  qualifica- 
tions of  things,  these  he  always  denied,  or  seemed  not  to 
understand : for  example,  that  Nero  was  a cruel  Emperor 
or  Charles  II  a perjurer.  Now,  how  are  you  to  prove 
things  of  this  kind,  or,  even  if  you  do,  manage  not  to 
put  a stop  to  the  general  discussion  or  lose  the  thread  of 
it  ? 

“ This,  I have  always  remarked,  is  the  method  of 
discussion  between  such  folk,  one  of  whom  seeks  only 
the  truth  and  advancement  thereto,  the  other  the  favour 
of  his  master  or  his  party  and  the  glory  of  talking  well. 
And  I always  consider  it  great  folly  and  waste  of  time 
for  an  honest  man  to  stop  and  talk  with  the  said  aca- 
demics.” (( Euvres  badines  of  Guy  Allard  de  Voiron.) 

CII 

Only  a small  part  of  the  art  of  being  happy  is  an  exact 
science,  a sort  of  ladder  up  which  one  can  be  sure  of 
climbing  a rung  per  century — and  that  is  the  part  which 
depends  on  government.  (Still,  this  is  only  theory.  I 

1 M.  de  Francueil  with  too  much  powder : Memoirs  of  Madame 
d’Epinay. 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


3QI 

find  the  Venetians  of  1770  happier  than  the  people  of 
Philadelphia  to-day.) 

For  the  rest,  the  art  of  being  happy  is  like  poetry  ; in 
spite  of  the  perfecting  of  all  things,  Homer,  two  thou- 
sand seven  hundred  years  ago,  had  more  talent  than 
Lord  Byron. 

Reading  Plutarch  with  attention,  I think  I can  see  that 
men  were  happier  in  Sicily  in  the  time  of  Dion  than  we 
manage  to  be  to-day,  although  they  had  no  printing  and 
no  iced  punch ! 

I would  rather  be  an  Arab  of  the  fifth  century  than  a 
Frenchman  of  the  nineteenth. 

cm 

People  go  to  the  theatre,  never  for  that  kind  of  illusion 
which  is  lost  one  minute  and  found  again  the  next,  but 
for  an  opportunity  of  convincing  their  neighbour,  or  at 
least  themselves,  that  they  have  read  their  La  Harpe  and 
are  people  who  know  what’s  good.  It  is  an  old  pedant’s 
pleasure  that  the  younger  generation  indulges  in. 

CIV 

A woman  belongs  by  right  to  the  man  who  loves  her 
and  is  dearer  to  her  than  life. 

CV 

Crystallisation  cannot  be  excited  by  an  understudy, 
and  your  most  dangerous  rivals  are  those  most  unlike 
you. 

CVI 

In  a very  advanced  state  of  society  passion-love  is  as 
natural  as  physical  love  among  savages.  (M.) 


302 


ON  LOVE 
CVII 

But  for  an  infinite  number  of  shades  of  feeling,  to  have 
a woman  you  adore  would  be  no  happiness  and  scarcely 
a possibility.  (L.,  October  Jth .) 

CVII  I 

Whence  comes  the  intolerance  of  Stoic  philosophers  ? 
From  the  same  source  as  that  of  religious  fanatics.  They 
are  put  out  because  they  are  struggling  against  nature, 
because  they  deny  themselves,  and  because  it  hurts  them. 
If  they  would  question  themselves  honestly  on  the  hatred 
they  bear  towards  those  who  profess  a code  of  morals 
less  severe,  they  would  have  to  own  that  it  springs  from 
a secret  jealousy  of  a bliss  which  they  envy  and  have 
renounced,  without  believing  in  the  rewards  which  would 
make  up  for  this  sacrifice.  (Diderot.) 

CIX 

Women  who  are  always  taking  offence  might  wTell 
ask  themselves  whether  they  are  following  a line  of  con- 
duct, which  they  think  really  and  truly  is  the  road  to 
happiness.  Is  there  not  a little  lack  of  courage,  mixed 
with  a little  mean  revenge,  at  the  bottom  of  a prude’s 
heart  ? Consider  the  ill-humour  of  Madame  de  Deshou- 
lieres  in  her  last  days.  ( Note  by  M.  Lemontey .)  (62.) 

CX 

Nothing  more  indulgent  than  virtue  without  hypoc- 
risy— because  nothing  happier ; yet  even  Mistress 
Hutchinson  might  well  be  more  indulgent. 

CXI 

Immediately  below  this  kind  of  happiness  comes  that 
of  a young,  pretty  and  easy-going  woman,  with  a con- 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


3°3 


science  that  does  not  reproach  her.  At  Messina  people 
used  to  talk  scandal  about  the  Contessina  Vicenzella. 
“ Well,  well ! ” she  would  say,  “ I’m  young,  free,  rich 
and  perhaps  not  ugly.  I wish  the  same  to  all  the  ladies 
of  Messina  ! ” It  was  this  charming  woman,  who  would 
never  be  more  than  a friend  to  me,  who  introduced  me 
to  the  Abbe  Melli’s  sweet  poems  in  Sicilian  dialect.  His 
poetry  is  delicious,  though  still  disfigured  by  mythology. 

(Delfante.) 

CXII 

The  public  of  Paris  has  a fixed  capacity  for  attention 
— three  days : after  which,  bring  to  its  notice  the  death 
of  Napoleon  or  M Beranger  (63)  sent  to  prison  for  two 
months — the  news  is  just  as  sensational,  and  to  bring  it 
up  on  the  fourth  day  just  as  tactless.  Must  every  great 
capital  be  like  this,  or  has  it  to  do  with  the  good  nature 
and  light  heart  of  the  Parisian  ? Thanks  to  aristocratic 
pride  and  morbid  reserve,  London  is  nothing  but  a 
numerous  collection  of  hermits ; it  is  not  a capital. 
Vienna  is  nothing  but  an  oligarchy  of  two  hundred 
families  surrounded  by  a hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
workpeople  and  servants  who  wait  on  them.  No  more 
is  that  a capital. — Naples  and  Paris,  the  only  two  capitals. 
(Extract  from  Birkbeck’s  Travels , p.  371.) 

CXIII 

According  to  common  ideas,  or  reasonable  ideas,  as 
they  are  called  by  ordinary  people,  if  any  period  of 
imprisonment  could  possibly  be  tolerable,  it  would  be 
after  several  years’  confinement,  when  at  last  the  poor 
prisoner  is  only  separated  by  a month  or  two  from  the 
moment  of  his  release.  But  the  ways  of  crystallisation 
are  otherwise.  The  last  month  is  more  painful  than  the 
last  three  years.  In  the  gaol  at  Melun,  M.  d’Hotelans 
has  seen  several  prisoners  die  of  impatience  within  a fevy 
pionths  of  the  day  of  release, 


3°4 


ON  LOVE 

CXIV 

I cannot  resist  the  pleasure  of  copying  out  a letter 
written  in  bad  English  by  a young  German  woman.  It 
proves  that,  after  all,  constant  love  exists,  and  that  not  every 
man  of  genius  is  a Mirabeau.  Klopstock,  the  great  poet, 
passes  at  Hamburg  for  having  been  an  attractive  person. 
Read  what  his  young  wife  wrote  to  an  intimate  friend : 

“ After  having  seen  him  two  hours,  I was  obliged  to 
pass  the  evening  in  a company,  which  never  had  been  so 
wearisome  to  me.  I could  not  speak,  I could  not  play  ; 
I thought  I saw  nothing  but  Klopstock  ; I saw  him  the 
next  day  and  the  following  and  we  were  very  seriously 
friends.  But  the  fourth  day  he  departed.  It  was  a 
strong  hour  the  hour  of  his  departure  ! He  wrote  soon 
after  ; from  that  time  our  correspondence  began  to  be 
a very  diligent  one.  I sincerely  believed  my  love  to  be 
friendship.  I spoke  with  my  friends  of  nothing  but 
Klopstock,  and  showed  his  letters.  They  raillied  at  me 
and  said  I was  in  love.  I raillied  then  again,  and  said 
that  they  must  have  a very  friendshipless  heart,  if  they 
had  no  idea  of  friendship  to  a man  as  well  as  to  a woman. 
Thus  it  continued  eight  months,  in  which  time  my  friends 
found  as  much  love  in  Klopstock’s  letters  as  in  me.  I 
perceived  it  likewise,  but  I would  not  believe  it.  At  the 
last  Klopstock  said  plainly  that  he  loved  ; and  I startled 
as  for  a wrong  thing  ; I answered  that  it  was  no  love, 
but  friendship,  as  it  was  what  I felt  for  him  ; we  had 
not  seen  one  another  enough  to  love  (as  if  love  must  have 
more  time  than  friendship).  This  was  sincerely  my 
meaning,  and  I had  this  meaning  till  Klopstock  came 
again  to  Hamburg.  This  he  did  a year  after  we  had  seen 
one  another  the  first  time.  We  saw,  we  were  friends,  we 
loved  ; and  a short  time  after,  I could  even  tell  Klop- 
stock that  I loved.  But  wre  were  obliged  to  part  again, 
and  wait  two  years  for  our  wedding.  My  mother  would 
not  let  me  marry  a stranger.  I could  marry  then  without 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


3°5 


her  consent,  as  by  the  death  of  my  father  my  fortune 
depended  not  on  her  ; but  this  was  a horrible  idea  for 
me  ; and  thank  heaven  that  I have  prevailed  by  prayers  ! 
At  this  time  knowing  Klopstock,  she  loves  him  as  her 
lifely  son,  and*  thanks  God  that  she  has  not  persisted. 
We  married  and  I am  the  happiest  wife  in  the  world. 
In  some  few  months  it  will  be  four  years  that  I am  so 
happy.  . . ( Correspondence  of  Richardson,  Vol.  Ill, 

p.  147.) 

cxv 

The  only  unions  legitimate  for  all  time  are  those  that 
answer  to  a real  passion. 

CXVI 

To  be  happy  with  laxity  of  morals,  one  wants  the 
simplicity  of  character  that  is  found  in  Germany  and 
Italy,  but  never  in  France.  (The  Duchess  de  C ) 

CXVII 

It  is  their  pride  that  makes  the  Turks  deprive  their 
women  of  everything  that  can  nourish  crystallisation. 
I have  been  living  for  the  last  three  months  in  a country 
where  the  titled  folk  will  soon  be  carried  just  as  far  by 
theirs. 

Modesty  is  the  name  given  here  by  men  to  the  exactions 
of  aristocratic  pride  run  mad.  Who  wrould  risk  a lapse  of 
modesty  ? Here  also,  as  at  Athens,  the  intellectuals 
show  a marked  tendency  to  take  refuge  with  courtesans 
— that  is  to  say,  with  the  women  whom  a scandal  shelters 
from  the  need  to  affect  modesty.  ( Life  of  Fox.) 

CXVI  II 

In  the  case  of  love  blighted  by  too  prompt  a victory,  I 
have  seen  in  very  tender  characters  crystallisation  trying 

x 


30 6 ON  LOVE 

to  form  later.  “ I don’t  love  you  a bit,”  she  says,  but 
laughing. 

CXIX 

The  present-day  education  of  women — that  odd  mix- 
ture of  works  of  charity  and  risky  songs  (“  Di  piacer  mi 
balza  il  cor,”  in  La  Gazza  Ladra ) (64) — is  the  one  thing 
in  the  world  best  calculated  to  keep  off  happiness.  This 
form  of  education  produces  minds  completely  incon- 
sequent. Madame  de  R , who  was  afraid  of  dying, 

has  just  met  her  death  through  thinking  it  funny  to 
throw  her  medicines  out  of  the  window.  Poor  little 
women  like  her  take  inconsequence  for  gaiety,  because, 
in  appearance,  gaiety  is  often  inconsequent.  ’Tis  like 
the  German,  who  threw  himself  out  of  the  window  in 
order  to  be  sprightly. 


cxx 

Vulgarity,  by  stifling  imagination,  instantly  produces 

in  me  a deadly  boredom.  Charming  Countess  K , 

showing  me  this  evening  her  lovers’  letters,  which  to 
my  mind  were  in  bad  taste.  (Forli,  March  I Jth,  Henri.) 

Imagination  was  not  stifled  : it  was  only  deranged, 
and  very  soon  from  mere  repugnance  ceased  to  picture 
the  unpleasantness  of  these  dull  lovers. 

CXXI 

Metaphysical  Reverie 

Belgirate,  2 6th  October , 1816. 

Real  passion  has  only  to  be  crossed  for  it  to  produce  ap- 
parently more  unhappiness  than  happiness.  This  thought 
may  not  be  true  in  the  case  of  gentle  souls,  but  it  is 
absolutely  proved  in  the  case  of  the  majority  of  men,  and 
particularly  of  cold  philosophers,  who,  as  regards  passion, 
live,  one  might  say,  only  on  curiosity  and  self-love. 

I said  all  this  to  the  Contessina  Fid  via  yesterday 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


307 


evening,  as  we  were  walking  together  near  the  great 
pine  on  the  eastern  terrace  of  Isola  Bella.  She  answered : 
“ Unhappiness  makes  a much  stronger  impression  on  a 
man’s  life  than  pleasure. 

“ The  prime  virtue  in  anything  which  claims  to  give  us 
pleasure,  is  that  it  strikes  hard. 

“ Might  we  not  say  that  life  itself  being  made  up  only 
of  sensation,  there  is  a universal  taste  in  all  living  beings 
for  the  consciousness  that  the  sensations  of  their  life  are 
the  keenest  that  can  be  ? In  the  North  people  are  hardly 
alive — look  at  the  slowness  of  their  movements.  The 
Italian’s  dole e Jar  niente  is  the  pleasure  of  relishing  one’s 
soul  and  one’s  emotions,  softly  reclining  on  a divan.  Such 
pleasure  is  impossible,  if  you  are  racing  all  day  on  horse- 
back or  in  a drosky,  like  the  Englishman  or  the  Russian. 
Such  people  would  die  of  boredom  on  a divan.  There 
is  no  reason  to  look  into  their  souls. 

“ Love  gives  the  keenest  possible  of  all  sensations — 
and  the  proof  is  that  in  these  moments  of  ‘ inflamma- 
tion,’ as  physiologists  would  say,  the  heart  is  open  to 
those  ‘ complex  sensations  ’ which  Helvetius,  Buffon  and 
other  philosophers  think  so  absurd.  The  other  day,  as 
you  know,  Luizina  fell  into  the  lake ; you  see,  her  eye 
was  following  a laurel  leaf  that  had  fallen  from  a tree 
on  Isola-Madre  (one  of  the  Borromean  Islands).  The 
poor  woman  owned  to  me  that  one  day  her  lover,  while 
talking  to  her,  threw  into  the  lake  the  leaves  of  a laurel 
branch  he  was  stripping,  and  said : ‘ Your  cruelty  and 
the  calumnies  of  your  friend  are  preventing  me  from 
turning  my  life  to  account  and  winning  a little  glory.’ 

“ It  is  a peculiar  and  incomprehensible  fact  that, 
when  some  great  passion  has  brought  upon  the  soul 
moments  of  torture  and  extreme  unhappiness,  the  soul 
comes  to  despise  the  happiness  of  a peaceful  life,  where 
everything  seems  framed  to  our  desires.  A fine  country- 
house  in  a picturesque  position,  substantial  means,  a 
good  wife,  three  pretty  children,  and  friends  charming 


ON  LOVE 


308 

and  numerous — this  is  but  a mere  outline  of  all  our  host, 

General  C , possesses.  And  yet  he  said,  as  you  know, 

he  felt  tempted  to  go  to  Naples  and  take  the  command 
of  a guerilla  band.  A soul  made  for  passion  soon  finds 
this  happy  fife  monotonous,  and  feels,  perhaps,  that  it 
only  offers  him  commonplace  ideas.  ‘ I wish,’  C.  said  to 
you,  ‘ that  I had  never  known  the  fever  of  high  passion. 
I wish  I could  rest  content  with  the  apparent  happiness 
on  which  people  pay  me  every  day  such  stupid  compli- 
ments, which,  to  put  the  finishing  touch  to,  I have  to 
answer  politely.’  ” 

I,  a philosopher,  rejoin  : “ Do  you  want  the  thou- 
sandth proof  that  we  are  not  created  by  a good  Being  ? 
It  is  the  fact  that  pleasure  does  not  make  perhaps  half 
as  much  impression  on  human  life  as  pain.  . . d’1  The 
Contessina  interrupted  me.  “ In  life  there  are  few 
mental  pains  that  are  not  rendered  sweet  by  the  emotion 
they  themselves  excite,  and,  if  there  is  a spark  of  mag- 
nanimity in  the  soul,  this  pleasure  is  increased  a hundred- 
fold. The  man  condemned  to  death  in  1815  and  saved 
by  chance  (M.  de  Lavalette  (65),  for  example),  if  he  was 
going  courageously  to  his  doom,  must  recall  that  moment 
ten  times  a month.  But  the  coward,  who  was  going  to 
die  crying  and  yelling  (the  exciseman,  Morris,  thrown 
into  the  lake,  Rob  Roy ) — suppose  him  also  saved  by 
chance — can  at  most  recall  that  instant  with  pleasure 
because  he  was  saved , not  for  the  treasures  of  magna- 
nimity that  he  discovered  with  him,  and  that  take  away 
for  the  future  all  his  fears.” 

I : “ Love,  even  unhappy  love,  gives  a gentle  soul,  for 
whom  a thing  imagined  is  a thing  existent,  treasures  of 
this  kind  of  enjoyment.  He  weaves  sublime  visions  of 
happiness  and  beauty  about  himself  and  his  beloved. 
How  often  has  Salviati  heard  Leonore,  with  her  enchant- 

1 See  the  analysis  of  the  ascetic  principle  in  Bentham,  Principles  of 
Morals  and  Legislation. 

By  giving  oneself  pain  one  pleases  a good  Being. 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS  309 

ing  smile,  say,  like  Mademoiselle  Mars  in  Les  Fausses 
Confidences : ‘ Well,  yes,  I do  love  you  ! ’ No,  these 
are  never  the  illusions  of  a prudent  mind.” 

Fulvia  (raising  her  eyes  to  heaven) : “ Yes,  for  you 
and  me,  love,  even  unhappy  love,  if  only  our  admiration 
for  the  beloved  knows  no  limit,  is  the  supreme  happiness.” 
(Fulvia  is  twenty-three, — the  most  celebrated  beauty  of 
. . . Her  eyes  were  heavenly  as  she  talked  like  this  at  mid- 
night and  raised  them  towards  the  glorious  sky  above 
the  Borromean  Islands.  The  stars  seemed  to  answer  her. 
I looked  down  and  could  find  no  more  philosophical 
arguments  to  meet  her.  She  continued  :) 

“ And  all  that  the  world  calls  happiness  is  not  worth 
the  trouble.  Only  contempt,  I think,  can  cure  this 
passion  ; not  contempt  too  violent,  for  that  is  torture. 
For  you  men  it  is  enough  to  see  the  object  of  your 
adoration  love  some  gross,  prosaic  creature,  or  sacrifice 
you  in  order  to  enjoy  pleasures  of  luxurious  comfort  with 
a woman  friend.” 


CXXII 

To  will  means  to  have  the  courage  to  expose  oneself 
to  troubles  ; to  expose  oneself  is  to  take  risks — to  gamble. 
You  find  military  men  who  cannot  exist  without  such 
gambling — that’s  what  makes  them  intolerable  in  home- 
life. 


CXXIII 

General  Teulie  told  me  this  evening  that  he  had 
found  out  why,  as  soon  as  there  were  affected  women  in 
a drawing-room,  he  became  so  horribly  dry  and  floored 
for  ideas.  It  was  because  he  wTas  sure  to  be  bitterly 
ashamed  of  having  exposed  his  feelings  with  warmth 
before  such  creatures.  General  Teulie  had  to  speak 
from  his  heart,  though  the  talk  were  only  of  Punch  and 
Judy  ; otherwise  he  had  nothing  to  say.  Moreover,  I 
could  see  he  never  knew  the  conventional  phrase  about 


ON  LOVE 


310 

anything  nor  what  was  the  right  thing  to  say.  That  is 
really  where  he  made  himself  so  monstrously  ridiculous 
in  the  eyes  of  affected  women.  Heaven  had  not  made 
him  for  elegant  society. 


CXXIV 

Irreligion  is  bad  form  at  Court,  because  it  is  calculated 
to  be  contrary  to  the  interests  of  princes : irreligion  is 
also  bad  form  in  the  presence  of  girls,  for  it  would 
prevent  their  finding  husbands.  It  must  be  owned  that, 
if  God  exists,  it  must  be  nice  for  Him  to  be  honoured 
from  motives  like  these. 

cxxv 

For  the  soul  of  a great  painter  or  a great  poet,  love  is 
divine  in  that  it  increases  a hundredfold  the  empire 
and  the  delight  of  his  art,  and  the  beauties  of  art  are  his 
soul’s  daily  bread.  How  many  great  artists  are  uncon- 
scious both  of  their  soul  and  of  their  genius  ! Often 
they  reckon  as  mediocre  their  talent  for  the  thing  they 
adore,  because  they  cannot  agree  with  the  eunuchs  of  the 
harem,  La  Harpe  and  such-like.  For  them  even  unhappy 
love  is  happiness. 

CXXVI 

The  picture  of  first  love  is  taken  generally  as  the  most 
touching.  Why  ? Because  it  is  the  same  in  all  coun- 
tries and  in  all  characters.  But  for  this  reason  first  love 
is  not  the  most  passionate. 

CXXVII 

Reason  ! Reason  ! Reason  ! That  is  what  the  world 
is  always  shouting  at  poor  lovers.  In  1760,  at  the  most 
thrilling  moment  in  the  Seven  Years’  War,  Grimm 
wrote  : “ . . . It  is  indubitable  that  the  King  of  Russia, 
by  yielding  Silesia,  could  have  prevented  the  war  from 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


311 

ever  breaking  out.  In  so  doing  he  would  have  done  a 
very  wise  thing.  How  many  evils  would  he  have  pre- 
vented ! And  what  can  there  be  in  common  between 
the  possession  of  a province  and  the  happiness  of  a king  ? 
Was  not  the  great  Elector  a very  happy  and  highly 
respected  prince  without  possessing  Silesia  ? It  is  also 
quite  clear  that  a king  might  have  taken  this  course  in 
obedience  to  the  precepts  of  the  soundest  reason,  and 
yet — I know  not  how — that  king  would  inevitably  have 
been  the  object  of  universal  contempt,  while  Frederick, 
sacrificing  everything  to  the  necessity  of  keeping  Silesia, 
has  invested  himself  with  immortal  glory. 

“ Without  any  doubt  the  action  of  Cromwell’s  son  was 
the  wisest  a man  could  take  : he  preferred  obscurity  and 
repose  to  the  bother  and  danger  of  ruling  over  a people 
sombre,  fiery  and  proud.  This  wise  man  won  the  con- 
tempt of  his  own  time  and  of  posterity  ; while  his  father, 
to  this  day,  has  been  held  a great  man  by  the  wisdom  of 
nations. 

“ The  Fair  Pe7iitent  is  a sublime  subject  on  the  Spanish1 
stage,  but  spoilt  by  Otway  and  Colardeau  in  England  and 
France.  Calista  has  been  dishonoured  by  a man  she 
adores ; he  is  odious  from  the  violence  of  his  inborn 
pride,  but  talent,  wit  and  a handsome  face — every- 
thing, in  fact — combine  to  make  him  seductive.  Indeed, 
Lothario  would  have  been  too  charming  could  he  have 
moderated  these  criminal  outbursts.  Moreover,  an 
hereditary  and  bitter  feud  separates  his  family  from  that 
of  the  woman  he  loves.  These  families  are  at  the  head 
of  two  factions  dividing  a Spanish  town  during  the  horrors 
of  the  Middle  Age.  Sciolto,  Calista’s  father,  is  the  chief 
of  the  faction,  which  at  the  moment  has  the  upper  hand  ; 
he  knows  that  Lothario  has  had  the  insolence  to  try  to 
seduce  his  daughter.  The  weak  Calista  is  weighed  down 
by  the  torment  of  shame  and  passion.  Her  father  has 

1 See  the  Spanish  and  Danish  romances  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
French  taste  would  find  them  dull  and  coarse. 


312 


ON  LOVE 


succeeded  in  getting  his  enemy  appointed  to  the  com- 
mand of  a naval  armament  that  is  setting  out  on  a dis- 
tant and  perilous  expedition,  where  Lothario  will  prob- 
ably meet  his  death.  In  Colardeau’s  tragedy,  he  has  just 
told  his  daughter  this  news.  At  his  words  Calista  can  no 
longer  hide  her  passion : 

O dieux ! 

II  part!  . . . Vous  l’ordonnez ! ...  II  a pu  s’y  resoudre  ?* 

“ Think  of  the  danger  she  is  placed  in.  Another  word, 
and  Sciolto  will  learn  the  secret  of  his  daughter’s  passion 
for  Lothario.  The  father  is  confounded  and  cries : — 
Qu’entends-je  ? Me  trompe-je  ? Oil  s’egarent  tes  voeux  ?2 
“At  this  Calista  recovers  herself  and  answers : — 

Ce  n’est  pas  son  exile,  c’est  sa  mort  que  je  veux, 

Qu’il  perisse ! 3 

“ By  these  words  Calista  stifles  her  father’s  rising  sus- 
picions ; yet  there  is  no  deceit,  for  the  sentiment  she 
utters  is  true.  The  existence  of  a man,  who  has  succeeded 
after  winning  her  love  in  dishonouring  her,  must  poison 
her  life,  were  he  even  at  the  ends  of  the  earth.  His 
death  alone  could  restore  her  peace  of  mind,  if  for  un- 
fortunate lovers  peace  of  mind  existed.  . . . Soon  after 
Lothario  is  killed  and,  happily  for  her,  Calista  dies. 

“ ‘ There’s  a lot  of  crying  and  moaning  over  nothing  ! ’ 
say  the  chilly  folk  who  plume  themselves  on  being  phil- 
osophers. ‘ Somebody  with  an  enterprising  and  violent 
nature  abuses  a woman’s  weakness  for  him — that  is 
nothing  to  tear  our  hair  over,  or  at  least  there  is  nothing 
in  Calista’s  troubles  to  concern  us.  She  must  console 
herself  with  having  satisfied  her  lover,  and  she  will  not 
be  the  first  woman  of  merit  who  has  made  the  best  of 
her  misfortune  in  that  way.’”4 

p “ My  God ! 

He  is  gone.  . . . You  have  sent  him.  . . . And  he  had  the  heart  ? ” — Tr.] 
[a  “ What  do  I hear  ? I am  deceived?  Where  now  are  all  your  vows?  ” — Tr.] 
[3  “It  is  not  his  banishment  I desire ; it  ishis  death.  Lethimdie!” — Tr.] 
‘ Grimm,  Vol.  Ill,  p.  107. 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


313 

Richard  Cromwell,  the  King  of  Prussia  and  Calista, 
with  the  souls  given  them  by  Heaven,  could  only  find 
peace  and  happiness  by  acting  as  they  did.  The  conduct 
of  the  two  last  is  eminently  unreasonable  and  yet  it  is 
those  two  that  we  admire.  (Sagan,  1813.) 

CXXVIII 

The  likelihood  of  constancy  when  desire  is  satisfied 
can  only  be  foretold  from  the  constancy  displayed,  in 
spite  of  cruel  doubts  and  jealousy  and  ridicule,  in  the 
days  before  intimate  intercourse. 

CXXIX 

A woman  is  in  despair  at  the  death  of  her  lover,  who 
has  been  killed  in  the  wars — of  course  she  means  to 
follow  him.  Now  first  make  quite  sure  that  it  is  not  the 
best  thing  for  her  to  do ; then,  if  you  decide  it  is  not, 
attack  her  on  the  side  of  a very  primitive  habit  of  the 
human  kind — the  desire  to  survive.  If  the  woman  has 
an  enemy,  one  may  persuade  her  that  her  enemy  has 
obtained  a warrant  for  her  imprisonment.  Unless  that 
threat  only  increases  her  desire  of  death,  she  may  think 
about  hiding  herself  in  order  to  escape  imprisonment. 
For  three  weeks  she  will  lie  low,  escaping  from  refuge 
to  refuge.  She  must  be  caught,  but  must  get  away  after 
three  days. 

Then  people  must  arrange  for  her  to  withdraw  under 
a false  name  to  some  very  remote  town,  as  unlike  as  pos- 
sible the  one  in  which  she  was  so  desperately  unhappy. 
But  who  is  going  to  devote  himself  to  the  consolation 
of  a being  so  unfortunate  and  so  lost  to  friendship  ? 
(Warsaw,  1808). 

cxxx 

Academical  wise-heads  can  see  a people’s  habits  in  its 
language.  In  Italy,  of  all  the  countries  in  the  world,  the 


ON  LOVE 


3H 

word  love  is  least  often  spoken — always  “ amicizia  ” and 
“ avvicinar  ” {amicizia  or  friendship,  for  love  ; avvicinar , 
to  approach,  for  courtship  that  succeeds). 

CXXXI 

A dictionary  of  music  has  never  been  achieved,  nor 
even  begun.  It  is  only  by  chance  that  you  find  the  phrase 
for  : “ I am  angry  ” or  “ I love  you,”  and  the  subtler 
feelings  involved  therein.  The  composer  finds  them  only 
when  passion,  present  in  his  heart  or  memory,  dictates 
them  to  him.  Well  ! that  is  why  people,  who  spend  the 
fire  of  youth  studying  instead  of  feeling,  cannot  be 
artists — the  way  that  works  is  perfectly  simple. 

CXXXI  I 

In  France  far  too  much  power  is  given  to  Women,  far 
too  little  to  Woman. 


CXXXIII 

The  most  flattering  thing  that  the  most  exalted  im- 
agination could  find  to  say  to  the  generation  now  arising 
among  us  to  take  possession  of  life,  of  public  opinion  and 
of  power,  happens  to  be  a piece  of  truth  plainer  than  the 
light  of  day.  This  generation  has  nothing  to  continue , it 
has  everything  to  create.  Napoleon’s  great  merit  is  to 
have  left  the  road  clear. 

CXXXIV 

I should  like  to  be  able  to  say  something  on  consolation. 
Enough  is  not  done  to  console. 

The  main  principle  is  that  you  try  to  form  a kind  of 
crystallisation  as  remote  as  possible  from  the  source  of 
present  suffering. 

In  order  to  discover  an  unknown  principle,  we  must 
bravely  face  a little  anatomy. 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


315 

If  the  reader  will  consult  Chapter  II  of  M.  Villerme’s 
work  on  prisons  (Paris,  1820),  he  will  see  that  the  prisoners 
“ si  maritano  fra  di  loro  ” (it  is  the  expression  in  the 
prisoners’  language).  The  women  also  “ si  maritano  fra 
di  loro,”  and  in  these  unions,  generally  speaking,  much 
fidelity  is  shown.  That  is  an  outcome  of  the  principle  of 
modesty,  and  is  not  observed  among  the  men. 

“ At  Saint-Lazare,”  says  M.  Villerme,  page  96,  “ a 
woman,  seeing  a new-comer  preferred  to  her,  gave  herself 
several  wounds  with  a knife.  ( October , 1818.) 

“ Usually  it  is  the  younger  woman  who  is  more  fond 
than  the  other.” 

cxxxv 

Vivacita,  leggerezza,  soggettissima  a prendere  puntiglio, 
occupazione  di  ogni  momento  delle  apparenze  della 
propria  esistenza  agli  occhi  altrui : Ecco  i tre  gran 

caratteri  di  questa  pianta  che  risveglia  Europa  nell  1808.1 

Of  Italians,  those  are  preferable  who  still  preserve  a 
little  savagery  and  taste  for  blood — the  people  of  the 
Romagna,  Calabria,  and,  among  the  more  civilised,  the 
Brescians,  Piedmontese  and  Corsicans. 

The  Florentine  bourgeois  has  more  sheepish  docility 
than  the  Parisian.  Leopold’s  spies  have  degraded  him. 
See  M.  Courier’s  (12)  letter  on  the  Librarian  Furia  and 
the  Chamberlain  Puccini. 

CXXXVI 

I smile  when  I see  earnest  people  never  able  to  agree,  say- 
ing quite  unconcernedly  the  most  abusive  things  of  each 
other — and  thinking  still  worse.  To  live  is  to  feel  life — to 
have  strong  feelings.  But  strength  must  be  rated  for 
each  individual,  and  what  is  painful — that  is,  too  strong — 

[1  “ Vivacity,  levity,  very  subject  to  pique,  and  unflagging  preoccupa- 
tion with  other  people’s  views  of  its  own  existence — these  are  the  three 
distinguishing  points  in  the  stock  which  is  stirring  the  life  of  Europe  in 
1808.” — Tr.] 


ON  LOVE 


316 

for  one  man  is  exactly  enough  to  stir  another’s  interest. 
Take,  for  example,  the  feeling  of  just  being  spared  by  the 
cannon  shot  in  the  line  of  fire,  the  feeling  of  penetrating 
into  Russia  in  pursuit  of  Parthian  hordes.  . . . And  it  is 
the  same  with  the  tragedies  of  Shakespeare  and  those  of 
Racine,  etc.,  etc.  . . . (Orcha,  August  13,  1812.) 

CXXXVII 

Pleasure  does  not  produce  half  so  strong  an  impression 
as  pain — that  is  the  first  point.  Then,  besides  this  dis- 
advantage in  the  quantity  of  emotion,  it  is  certainly  not 
half  as  easy  to  excite  sympathy  by  the  picture  of  happi- 
ness as  by  that  of  misfortune.  Hence  poets  cannot  depict 
unhappiness  too  forcibly.  They  have  only  one  shoal  to 
fear,  namely,  things  that  disgust.  Here  again,  the  force 
of  feeling  must  be  rated  differently  for  monarchies  and 
republics.  A Lewis  XIV  increases  a hundredfold  the 
number  of  disgusting  things.  (Crabbe’s  Poems.) 

By  the  mere  fact  of  its  existence  a monarchy  a la 
Lewis  XIV,  with  its  circle  of  nobles,  makes  everything 
simple  in  Art  become  coarse.  The  noble  personage  for 
whom  the  thing  is  exposed  feels  insulted  ; the  feeling  is 
sincere — and  in  so  far  worthy. 

See  what  the  gentle  Racine  has  been  able  to  make  of  the 
heroic  friendship,  so  sacred  to  antiquity,  of  Orestes  and 
Pylades.  Orestes  addresses  Pylades  with  the  familiar 
“ thou.”1  Pylades  answers  him  “ My  Lord.”1  And  then 
people  pretend  Racine  is  our  most  touching  writer  ! If 
they  won’t  give  in  after  this  example,  we  must  change 
the  subject. 

CXXXVIII 

Directly  the  hope  of  revenge  is  possible,  the  feeling  of 
hatred  returns.  Until  the  last  w^eeks  of  my  imprison- 
ment it  never  entered  my  head  to  run  away  and 
break  the  solemn  oath  I had  sworn  to  my  friend.  Two 

[»  “ Tu  ” and  “ Seigneur”] 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


3i7 


confidences  these — made  this  morning  in  my  presence  by 
a gentleman  cut-throat  who  favoured  us  with  the  history 
of  his  life.  (Faenza,  1817.) 

CXXXIX 

All  Europe,  put  together,  could  never  make  one 
French  book  of  the  really  good  type  — the  Lettres 
Persanes , for  example. 

CXL 

I call  pleasure  every  impression  which  the  soul  would 
rather  receive  than  not  receive.1 

I call  pain  every  impression  which  the  soul  would 
rather  not  receive  than  receive. 

If  I want  to  go  to  sleep  rather  than  be  conscious  of  my 
feelings,  they  are  undoubtedly  pain.  Hence  the  desire 
of  love  is  not  pain,  for  the  lover  will  leave  the  most  agree- 
able society  in  order  to  day-dream  in  peace. 

Time  weakens  pleasures  of  the  body  and  aggravates  its 
pains. 

As  for  spiritual  pleasures — they  grow  weaker  or 
stronger  according  to  the  passion.  For  example,  after 
six  months  passed  in  the  study  of  astronomy  you  like 
astronomy  all  the  more,  and  after  a year  of  avarice  money 
is  still  sweeter. 

Spiritual  pains  are  softened  by  time — how  many 
widows,  really  inconsolable,  console  themselves  with 
time  ! — Vide  Lady  Waldegrave — Horace  Walpole. 

Given  a man  in  a state  of  indifference — now  let  him 
have  a pleasure ; 

Given  another  man  in  a state  of  poignant  suffering — 
suddenly  let  the  suffering  cease  ; 

Now  is  the  pleasure  this  man  feels  of  the  same  nature 
as  that  of  the  other  ? M.  Verri  (66)  says  Yes,  but,  to  my 
mind — No. 

Not  all  pleasures  come  from  cessation  of  pain, 

1 Maupertius, 


ON  LOVE 


A man  had  lived  for  a long  time  on  an  income  of  six 
thousand  francs — he  wins  five  hundred  thousand  in  the 
lottery.  He  had  got  out  of  the  way  of  having  desires 
which  wealth  alone  can  satisfy. — And  that,  by  the  bye, 
is  one  of  my  objections  to  Paris — it  is  so  easy  to  lose  this 
habit  there. 

The  latest  invention  is  a machine  for  cutting  quills. 
I bought  one  this  morning  and  it’s  a great  joy  to  me, 
as  I cannot  stand  cutting  them  myself.  But  yester- 
day I was  certainly  not  unhappy  for  not  knowing  of  this 
machine.  Or  was  Petrarch  unhappy  for  not  taking  coffee? 

What  is  the  use  of  defining  happiness  ? Everyone  knows 
it — the  first  partridge  you  kill  on  the  wing  at  twelve,  the 
first  battle  you  come  through  safely  at  seventeen.  . . . 

Pleasure  which  is  only  the  cessation  of  pain  passes  very 
quickly,  and  its  memory,  after  some  years,  is  even  dis- 
tasteful. One  of  my  friends  was  wounded  in  the  side  by 
a bursting  shell  at  the  battle  of  Moscow,  and  a few  days 
later  mortification  threatened.  After  a delay  of  some 
hours  they  managed  to  get  together  M.  Beclar,  M.  Larrey 
and  some  surgeons  of  repute,  and  the  result  of  their  con- 
sultation wras  that  my  friend  was  informed  that  morti- 
fication had  not  set  up.  At  the  moment  I could  see  his 
happiness — it  was  a great  happiness,  but  not  unalloyed. 
In  the  secret  depth  of  his  heart  he  could  not  believe  that 
it  was  really  all  over,  he  kept  reconsidering  the  surgeons’ 
words  and  debating  whether  he  could  rely  on  them  en- 
tirely. He  never  lost  sight  completely  of  the  possibility 
of  mortification.  Nowadays,  after  eight  years,  if  you 
speak  to  him  of  that  consultation,  it  gives  him  pain — it 
brings  to  mind  unexpectedly  a passed  unhappiness. 

Pleasure  caused  by  the  cessation  of  pain  consists  in  : — 

1.  Defeating  the  continual  succession  of  one’s  own 

misgivings : 

2.  Reviewing  all  the  advantages  one  was  on  the  point 

of  losing. 

Pleasure  caused  by  winning  five  hundred  thousand 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


3r9 

francs  consists  in  foreseeing  all  the  new  and  unusual 
pleasures  one  is  going  to  indulge  in. 

There  is  this  peculiar  reservation  to  be  made.  You 
have  to  take  into  account  whether  a man  is  too  used,  or 
not  used  enough,  to  wishing  for  wealth.  If  he  is  not 
used  enough,  if  his  mind  is  closely  circumscribed,  for  two 
or  three  days  together  he  will  feel  embarrassed  ; while  if 
he  is  inclined  very  often  to  wish  for  great  riches,  he  will 
find  he  has  used  up  their  enjoyments  in  advance  by  too 
frequently  foretasting  them. 

This  misfortune  is  unknown  to  passion-love. 

A soul  on  fire  pictures  to  itself  not  the  last  favour,  but 
the  nearest  — perhaps  just  her  hand  to  press,  if,  for 
example,  your  mistress  is  unkind  to  you.  Imagination 
does  not  pass  beyond  that  of  its  own  accord  ; you  may 
force  it,  but  a moment  later  it  is  gone — for  fear  of  pro- 
faning its  idol. 

When  pleasure  has  run  through  the  length  of  its  career, 
we  fall  again,  of  course,  into  indifference,  but  this  is  not 
the  same  indifference  as  we  felt  before.  The  second 
state  differs  from  the  first  in  that  we  are  no  longer  in  a 
position  to  relish  with  such  delight  the  pleasure  that  we 
have  just  tasted.  The  organs  we  use  for  plucking  plea- 
sures are  worn  out.  The  imagination  is  no  longer  so 
inclined  to  offer  fancies  for  the  enjoyment  of  desire — 
desire  is  satisfied. 

In  the  midst  of  enjoyment  to  be  torn  from  pleasure 
produces  pain. 

CXLI 

With  regard  to  physical  love  and,  in  fact,  physical 
pleasure,  the  disposition  of  the  two  sexes  is  not  the  same. 
Unlike  men,  practically  all  women  are  at  least  susceptible 
in  secret  to  one  kind  of  love.  Ever  after  opening  her 
first  novel  at  fifteen,  a woman  is  silently  waiting  for  the 
coming  of  passion-love,  and  towards  twenty,  when  she  is 
just  over  the  irresponsibility  of  life’s  first  flush,  the  sus- 


32° 


ON  LOVE 


pense  redoubles.  As  for  men,  they  think  love  impossible 
or  ridiculous,  almost  before  they  are  thirty. 

CXLII 

From  the  age  of  six  we  grow  used  to  run  after  pleasure 
in  our  parents’  footsteps. 

The  pride  of  Contessina  Nella’s  mother  was  the  start- 
ing-point of  that  charming  woman’s  troubles,  and  by  the 
same  insane  pride  she  now  makes  them  hopeless.  (Venice, 
1819.) 

CXLIII 

Romanticism 

I hear  from  Paris  that  there  are  heaps  and  heaps 
of  pictures  to  be  seen  there  (Exhibition  of  1822),  repre- 
senting subjects  taken  from  the  Bible,  painted  by  artists 
who  hardly  believe  in  it,  admired  and  criticised  by  people 
who  don’t  believe,  and  finally  paid  for  by  people  who 
don’t  believe. 

After  that — you  ask  why  art  is  decadent. 

The  artist  who  does  not  believe  what  he  is  saying  is 
always  afraid  of  appearing  exaggerated  or  ridiculous. 
How  is  he  to  touch  the  sublime  ? Nothing  uplifts  him. 
{Letter a di  Roma , Giugno,  1822.) 

CXLIV 

One  of  the  greatest  poets  the  world  has  seen  in  modern 
times  is,  to  my  mind,  Robert  Burns,  a Scotch  peasant, 
who  died  of  want.  He  had  a salary  of  seventy  pounds  as 
exciseman — for  himself,  his  wife  and  four  children.  One 
cannot  help  saying,  by  the  way,  that  Napoleon  was  more 
liberal  towards  his  enemy  Chenier.  Burns  had  none  of 
the  English  prudery  about  him.  His  was  a Roman  genius, 
without  chivalry  and  without  honour.  I have  no  space 
here  to  tell  of  his  love-affairs  with  Mary  Campbell  and  their 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


321 

mournful  ending.  I shall  merely  point  out  that  Edin- 
burgh is  on  the  same  latitude  as  Moscow — a fact  which 
perhaps  upsets  my  system  of  climates  a little. 

“ One  of  Burns’  remarks,  when  he  first  came  to  Edin- 
burgh, was  that  between  the  men  of  rustic  life  and  those 
of  the  polite  world  he  observed  little  difference  ; that  in 
the  former,  though  unpolished  by  fashion  and  unen- 
lightened by  science,  he  had  found  much  observation  and 
much  intelligence  ; but  that  a refined  and  accomplished 
woman  was  a being  almost  new  to  him,  and  of  which  he 
had  formed  but  a very  inadequate  idea.”  (London, 
November  1st , 1821,  Vol.  V,  p.  69.) 


CXLV 

Love  is  the  only  passion  that  mints  the  coin  to  pay  its 
own  expenses. 


CXLVI 

The  compliments  paid  to  little  girls  of  three  furnish 
exactly  the  right  sort  of  education  to  imbue  them  with 
the  most  pernicious  vanity.  To  look  pretty  is  the  highest 
virtue,  the  greatest  advantage  on  earth.  To  have  a 
pretty  dress  is  to  look  pretty. 

These  idiotic  compliments  are  not  current  except  in 
the  middle  class.  Happily  they  are  bad  form  outside 
the  suburbs — being  too  easy  to  pay. 


CXLVII 

Loretto,  September  nth,  1811. 

I have  just  seen  a very  fine  battalion  composed  of 
natives  of  this  country — the  remains,  in  fact,  of  four 
thousand  who  left  for  Vienna  in  1809.  I passed  along 
the  ranks  with  the  Colonel,  and  asked  several  of  the  soldiers 
to  tell  me  their  story.  Theirs  is  the  virtue  of  the  republics 
of  the  Middle  Age,  though  more  or  less  debased  by  the 


322 


ON  LOVE 


Spaniards,1  the  Roman  Church,2  and  two  centuries  of 
the  cruel,  treacherous  governments,  which,  one  after 
another,  have  spoiled  the  country. 

Flashing,  chivalrous  honour,  sublime  but  senseless,  is  an 
exotic  plant  introduced  here  only  a very  few  years  back. 

In  1740  there  was  no  trace  of  it.  Vide  de  Brosses.  The 
officers  of  Montenotte  (67)  and  of  Rivoli  (67)  had  too 
many  chances  of  showing  their  comrades  true  virtue  to 
go  and  imitate  a kind  of  honour  unknown  to  the  cottage 
homes  from  which  the  soldiery  of  1796  was  drawn — 
indeed,  it  would  have  seemed  to  them  highly  fantastic. 

In  1796  there  was  no  Legion  of  Honour,  no  enthusiasm 
for  one  man,  but  plenty  of  simple  truth  and  virtue  a la 
Desaix.  We  may  conclude  that  honour  was  imported  into 
Italy  by  people  too  reasonable  and  too  virtuous  to  cut 
much  of  a figure.  One  is  sensible  of  a large  gap  between 
the  soldiers  of  ’96,  often  shoeless  and  coatless,  the  victors 
of  twenty  battles  in  one  year,  and  the  brilliant  regiments 
of  Fontenoy,  taking  off  their  hats  and  saying  to  the 
English  politely : Messieurs , tirez  les  premiers — gentle- 
men, pray  begin. 


CXLVIII 

I am  ready  to  agree  that  one  must  judge  the  soundness 
of  a system  of  life  by  the  perfect  representative  of  its 
supporters.  For  example,  Richard  Cceur-de-Lion  is  the 
perfect  pattern  on  the  throne  of  heroism  and  chivalrous 
valour,  and  as  a king  was  a ludicrous  failure. 

1 The  Spaniards  abroad,  about  1580,  were  nothing  but  energetic 
agents  of  despotism  or  serenaders  beneath  the  windows  of  Italian  beauties. 
In  those  days  Spaniards  dropped  into  Italy  just  in  the  way  people  come 
nowadays  to  Paris.  For  the  rest,  they  prided  themselves  on  nothing  but 
upholding  the  honour  of  the  king,  their  master.  They  ruined  Italy— 
ruined  and  degraded  it, 

In  1626  the  great  poet  Calderon  was  an  officer  at  Milan. 

2 See  Life  of  S.  Carlo  Borromeo,  who  transformed  Milan  and  debased 
it,  emptied  its  drill  halls  and  filled  its  chapels,  Mervejlles  kills  Castiglione, 
I533i 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS  323 

CXLIX 

Public  opinion  in  1822  : A man  of  thirty  seduces  a girl 
of  fifteen — the  girl  loses  her  reputation. 

CL 

Ten  years  later  I met  Countess  Ottavia  again  ; on 
seeing  me  once  more  she  wept  bitterly.  I reminded  her 
of  Oginski.  “ I can  no  longer  love,”  she  told  me.  I 
answered  in  the  poet’s  words : “ How  changed,  how  sad- 
dened, yet  how  elevated  was  her  character  ! ” 

CLI 

French  morals  will  be  formed  between  1815  and  1880, 
just  as  English  morals  were  formed  between  1668  and 
1730.  There  will  be  nothing  finer,  juster  or  happier  than 
moral  France  about  the  year  1900.  At  the  present  day 
it  does  not  exist.  What  is  considered  infamous  in  Rue  de 
Belle-Chasse  is  an  act  of  heroism  in  Rue  du  Mont-Blanc, 
and,  allowing  for  all  exaggeration,  people  really  worthy  of 
contempt  escape  by  a change  of  residence.  One  remedy  we 
did  have — the  freedom  of  the  Press.  In  the  long  run  the 
Press  gives  each  man  his  due,  and  when  this  due  happens 
to  fall  in  with  public  opinion,  so  it  remains.  This  remedy 
is  now  torn  from  us — and  it  will  somewhat  retard  the 
regeneration  of  morals. 


CLII 

The  Abbe  Rousseau  was  a poor  young  man  (1784), 
reduced  to  running  all  over  the  town,  from  morn  till 
night,  giving  lessons  in  history  and  geography.  He  fell 
in  love  with  one  of  his  pupils,  like  Abelard  with  Heloise  or 
Saint-Preux  with  Julie.  Less  happy  than  they,  no  doubt 
— yet,  probably,  pretty  nearly  so— as  full  of  passion  as 
Saint-Preux,  but  with  a heart  more  virtuous,  more  refined 
and  also  more  courageous,  he  seems  to  have  sacrificed 
himself  to  the  object  of  his  passion,  After  dining  in  a 


ON  LOVE 


restaurant  at  the  Palais-Royal  with  no  outward  sign  of 
distress  or  frenzy,  this  is  what  he  wrote  before  blowing 
out  his  brains.  The  text  of  his  note  is  taken  from  the 
enquiry  held  on  the  spot  by  the  commissary  and  the 
police,  and  is  remarkable  enough  to  be  preserved. 

“ The  immeasurable  contrast  that  exists  between  the 
nobility  of  my  feelings  and  the  meanness  of  my  birth,  my 
love,  as  violent  as  it  is  invincible,  for  this  adorable  girl1 
and  my  fear  of  causing  her  dishonour,  the  necessity  of 
choosing  between  crime  and  death — everything  has  made 
me  decide  to  say  good-bye  to  life.  Born  for  virtue,  I 
was  about  to  become  a criminal ; I preferred  death.” 
(Grimm,  Part  III,  Vol.  II,  p.  395.) 

This  is  an  admirable  case  of  suicide,  but  would  be 
merely  silly  according  to  the  morals  of  1880. 

CLIII 

Try  as  they  may,  the  French,  in  Art,  will  never  get 
beyond  the  pretty. 

The  comic  presupposes  “ go  ” in  the  public,  and  brio 
in  the  actor.  The  delicious  foolery  of  Palomba,  played  at 
Naples  by  Casaccia,  is  an  impossibility  at  Paris.  There 
we  have  the  pretty — always  and  only  the  pretty — cried  up 
sometimes,  it  is  true,  as  the  sublime. 

I don’t  waste  much  thought,  you  see,  on  general  con- 
siderations of  national  honour. 

CLIV 

We  are  very  fond  of  a beautiful  picture,  say  the  F rench — 
and  quite  truly — but  we  exact,  as  the  essential  condition 
of  beauty,  that  it  be  produced  by  a painter  standing  on 
one  leg  the  whole  time  he  is  working. — Verse  in  dramatic 
art. 

1 The  girl  in  question  appears  to  have  been  Mademoiselle  Gromaire, 
daughter  of  M.  Gromaire,  expeditionary  at  the  Court  of  Rome. 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS  325 
CLV 

Much  less  envy  in  America  than  in  France,  and  much 
less  intellect. 


CL  VI 


Since  1530  tyranny  a la  Philip  II  has  so  degraded 
men’s  intellect,  has  so  overshadowed  the  garden  of  the 
world,  that  the  poor  Italian  writers  have  not  yet  plucked 
up  enough  courage  to  invent  a national  novel.  Yet, 
thanks  to  the  naturalness  which  reigns  there,  nothing 
could  be  simpler.  They  need  only  copy  faithfully  what 
stares  the  world  in  the  face.  Think  of  Cardinal  Gonzalvi, 
for  three  hours  gravely  looking  for  flaws  in  the  libretto 
of  an  opera-bouffe,  and  saying  uneasily  to  the  composer  : 
“ But  you’re  continually  repeating  this  word  Cozzar, 
cozzar” 


CLVII 


Helolse  speaks  of  love,  a coxcomb  of  his  love — don’t 
you  see  that  these  things  have  really  nothing  but  their 
name  in  common  ? Just  so,  there  is  the  love  of  concerts 
and  the  love  of  music : the  love  of  successes  that  tickle 
your  vanity — successes  your  harp  may  bring  you  in  the 
midst  of  a brilliant  society — or  the  love  of  a tender  day- 
dream, solitary  and  timid. 


CL  VIII 

When  you  have  just  seen  the  woman  you  love,  the 
sight  of  any  other  woman  spoils  your  vision,  gives  your 
eyes  physical  pain.  I know  why. 


CLIX 

Reply  to  an  objection  : — 

Perfect  naturalness  in  intimate  intercourse  can  find  no 
place  but  in  passion-love,  for  in  all  the  other  kinds  of 
love  a man  feels  the  possibility  of  a favoured  rival. 


326 


ON  LOVE 
CLX 

In  a man  who,  to  be  released  from  life,  has  taken 
poison,  the  moral  part  of  his  being  is  dead.  Dazed  by 
what  he  has  done  and  by  what  he  is  about  to  experience, 
he  no  longer  attends  to  anything.  There  are  some  rare 
exceptions. 

CLXI 

An  old  9ea  captain,  to  whom  I respectfully  offered  my 
manuscript,  thought  it  the  silliest  thing  in  the  world  to 
honour  with  six  hundred  pages  so  trivial  a thing  as  love. 
But,  however  trivial,  love  is  still  the  only  weapon  which 
can  strike  strong  souls,  and  strike  home. 

What  was  it  prevented  M.  de  M , in  1814,  from 

despatching  Napoleon  in  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau  ? 
The  contemptuous  glance  of  a pretty  woman  coming  into 
the  Bains-Chinois.1  What  a difference  in  the  destiny  of  the 
world  if  Napoleon  and  his  son  had  been  killed  in  1814  ! 

CLXII 

I quote  the  following  lines  from  a French  letter  re- 
ceived from  Znaim,  remarking  at  the  same  time  that 
there  is  not  a man  in  the  provinces  capable  of  under- 
standing my  brilliant  lady  correspondent : — 

“ . . . Chance  means  a lot  in  love.  When  for  a whole 
year  I have  read  no  English,  I find  the  first  novel  I 
pick  up  delicious.  One  who  is  used  to  the  love  of  a 
prosaic  being — slow,  shy  of  all  that  is  refined,  and  pas- 
sionately responsive  to  none  but  material  interests, 
the  love  of  shekels,  the  glory  of  a fine  stable  and 
bodily  desires,  etc.  — can  easily  feel  disgust  at  the 
behaviour  of  impetuous  genius,  ardent  and  uncurbed 
in  fancy,  mindful  of  love,  forgetful  of  all  the  rest, 
always  active  and  always  headlong,  just  where  the 
other  let  himself  be  led  and  never  acted  for  himself. 
The  shock,  which  genius  causes,  may  offend  what,  last 
1 Memoirs,  p.  88.  (London  edition.) 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 


3*7 

year  at  Zithau,  we  used  to  call  feminine  pride,  I’orgueil 
feminin — (is  that  French  ?)  With  the  man  of  genius  comes 
the  startling  feeling  which  with  his  predecessor  was 
unknown — and,  remember,  this  predecessor  came  to  an 
untimely  end  in  the  wars  and  remains  a synonym  for 
perfection.  This  feeling  may  easily  be  mistaken  for 
repulsion  by  a soul,  lofty  but  without  that  assurance 
which  is  the  fruit  of  a goodly  number  of  intrigues.” 

CLXIII 

“ Geoffry  Rudel,  of  Blaye,  was  a very  great  lord,  prince 
of  Blaye,  and  he  fell  in  love,  without  knowing  her,  with 
the  Princess  of  Tripoli,  for  the  great  goodness  and  great 
graciousness,  which  he  heard  tell  of  her  from  the  pil- 
grims, who  came  from  Antioch.  And  he  made  for  her 
many  fair  songs,  with  good  melodies  and  suppliant  words, 
and,  for  the  desire  he  had  to  see  her,  he  took  the  cross 
and  set  out  upon  the  sea  to  go  to  her.  And  it  happened 
that  in  the  ship  a grievous  malady  took  him,  in  such  wise 
that  those  that  were  with  him  believed  him  to  be  dead, 
but  they  contrived  to  bring  him  to  Tripoli  into  a hostelry, 
like  one  dead.  They  sent  word  to  the  countess  and  she 
came  to  his  bed  and  took  him  in  her  arms.  Then  he 
knew  that  she  was  the  countess  and  he  recovered  his  sight 
and  his  hearing  and  he  praised  God,  giving  Him  thanks 
that  He  had  sustained  his  life  until  he  had  seen  her. 
And  thus  he  died  in  the  arms  of  the  countess,  and  she 
gave  him  noble  burial  in  the  house  of  the  Temple  at 
Tripoli.  And  then  the  same  day  she  took  the  veil  for 
the  sorrow  she  had  for  him  and  for  his  death.”1 

CLXIV 

Here  is  a singular  proof  of  the  madness  called  crystal- 
lisation, to  be  found  in  Mistress  Hutchinson’s  Memoirs : 

“ He  told  to  M.  Hutchinson  a very  true  story  of  a 
gentleman  who  not  long  before  had  come  for  some  time 
1 Translated  from  a Provencal  MS.  of  the  thirteenth  century. 


ON  LOVE 


328 

to  lodge  in  Richmond,  and  found  all  the  people  he  came 
in  company  with  bewailing  the  death  of  a gentlewoman 
that  had  lived  there.  Hearing  her  so  much  deplored,  he 
made  enquiry  after  her,  and  grew  so  in  love  with  the 
description,  that  no  other  discourse  could  at  first  please 
him  nor  could  he  at  last  endure  any  other ; he  grew 
desperately  melancholy  and  would  go  to  a mount  where 
the  print  of  her  foot  was  cut  and  lie  there  pining  and  kissing 
it  all  the  day  long,  till  at  length  death  in  some  months’ 
space  concluded  his  languishment.  This  story  was  very 
true.”  (Vol.  I,  p.  83.) 

CLXV 

Lisio  Visconti  was  anything  but  a great  reader.  Not 
to  mention  what  he  may  have  seen  while  knocking  about 
the  world,  his  essay  is  based  on  the  Memoirs  of  some 
fifteen  or  twenty  persons  of  note.  In  case  it  happens  that 
the  reader  thinks  such  trifling  points  worthy  of  a 
moment’s  attention,  I give  the  books  from  which  Lisio 
drew  his  reflexions  and  conclusions : — 

The  Autobiography  of  Benvenuto  Cellini. 

The  novels  of  Cervantes  and  Scarron. 

Manon  Lescaut  and  Le  Doyen  de  Killerine , by  the 
Abbe  Prevot. 

The  Latin  Letters  of  Heloise  to  Abelard. 

Tom  Jones. 

Letters  of  a Portuguese  Nun. 

Two  or  three  stories  by  Auguste  La  Fontaine. 

Pignotti’s  History  of  Tuscany. 

Werther. 

Brantome. 

Memoirs  of  Carlo  Gozzi  (Venice,  1760) — only  the 
eighty  pages  on  the  history  of  his  love  affairs. 

The  Memoirs  of  Lauzun,  Saint-Simon,  d’Epinay, 
de  Stael,  Marmontel,  Bezenval,  Roland,  Duclos, 
Horace  Walpole,  Evelyn,  Hutchinson. 

Letters  of  Mademoiselle  Lespinasse. 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS  329 
CLXVI 

One  of  the  most  important  persons  of  our  age,  one  of 
the  most  prominent  men  in  the  Church  and  in  the  State, 
related  to  us  this  evening  (January,  1822),  at  Madame  de 

M ’s,  the  very  real  dangers  he  had  gone  through  under 

the  Terror. 

“ I had  the  misfortune  to  be  one  of  the  most  prominent 
members  of  the  Constituent  Assembly.  I stayed  in  Paris, 
trying  to  hide  myself  as  best  I could,  so  long  as  there  was 
any  hope  of  success  there  for  the  good  cause.  At  last,  as 
the  danger  grew  greater  and  greater,  while  the  foreigner 
made  no  energetic  move  in  our  favour,  I decided 
to  leave — only  I had  to  leave  without  a passport. 
Everyone  was  going  off  to  Coblentz,  so  I determined 
to  make  for  Calais.  But  my  portrait  had  been  so 
widely  circulated  eighteen  months  before,  that  I was 
recognised  at  the  last  post.  However,  I was  allowed 
to  pass  and  arrived  at  an  inn  at  Calais,  where,  you  can 
imagine,  I did  not  sleep  a wink — and  very  lucky  it  was, 
since  at  four  o’clock  in  the  morning  I heard  someone 
pronounce  my  name  quite  distinctly.  While  I got  up  and 
was  dressing  in  all  haste  I could  clearly  distinguish,  in 
spite  of  the  darkness,  the  National  Guards  with  their 
rifles ; the  people  had  opened  the  main  door  for  them 
and  they  were  entering  the  courtyard  of  the  inn.  For- 
tunately it  was  raining  in  torrents — a winter  morning, 
very  dark  and  with  a high  wind.  The  darkness  and  the 
noise  of  the  wind  enabled  me  to  escape  by  the  back 
courtyard  and  stables.  There  I stood  in  the  street 
at  seven  o’clock  in  the  morning,  utterly  resourceless ! 

I imagined  they  were  following  me  from  my  inn. 
Hardly  knowing  what  I was  doing,  I went  down  to  the 
port,  on  to  the  jetty.  I own  I had  rather  lost  my  head — 
everywhere  the  vision  of  the  guillotine  floated  before  my 
eyes. 

A packet-boat  was  leaving  the  port  in  a very  rough  sea 
— it  was  already  a hundred  yards  from  the  jetty.  Sud- 


330 


ON  LOVE 


denly  I heard  a shout  from  out  at  sea,  as  if  I were  being 
called.  I saw  a small  boat  approaching.  “ Hi ! sir,  come 
on  ! We’re  waiting  for  you  ! ” Mechanically  I got  into 
the  boat.  A man  was  in  it.  “ I saw  you  walking  on  the 
jetty  with  a scared  look,”  he  whispered,  “ I thought  you 
might  be  some  poor  fugitive.  I’ve  told  them  you  are  a 
friend  I was  expecting  ; pretend  to  be  sea-sick  and  go 
and  hide  below  in  a dark  corner  of  the  cabin.” 

“ Oh,  what  a fine  touch  ! ” cried  our  hostess.  She  was 
almost  speechless  and  had  been  moved  to  tears  by  the 
Abbe’s  long  and  excellently  told  story  of  his  perils. 
“ How  you  must  have  thanked  your  unknown  bene- 
factor ! What  was  his  name  ? ” 

“ I do  not  know  his  name,”  the  Abbe  answered,  a little 
confused. 

And  there  was  a moment  of  profound  silence  in  the 
room. 

CLXVII 

The  Father  and  the  Son 
(A  dialogue  of  1787) 

The  Father  (Minister  of ):  “I  congratulate  you, 

my  son  ; it’s  a splendid  thing  for  you  to  be  invited  to  the 

Duke  of ; it’s  a distinction  for  a man  of  your  age. 

Don’t  fail  to  be  at  the  Palace  punctually  at  six  o’clock.” 
The  Son  : “ I believe,  sir,  you  are  dining  there  also.” 

The  Father : “ The  Duke  of is  always  more  than 

kind  to  our  family,  and,  as  he’s  asking  you  for  the  first 
time,  he  has  been  pleased  to  invite  me  as  well.” 

The  son,  a young  man  of  high  birth  and  most  dis- 
tinguished intellect,  does  not  fail  to  be  at  the  Palace 
punctually  at  six  o’clock.  Dinner  was  at  seven.  The  son 
found  himself  placed  opposite  his  father.  Each  guest  had 
a naked  woman  next  to  him.  The  dinner  was  served  by 
a score  of  lackeys  in  full  livery.1 

1 From  December  27,  1819,  till  3 June,  1820,  Mil.  [This  note  is 
written  thus  in  English  by  Stendhal. — Tr.] 


33i 


SCATTERED  FRAGMENTS 

CLXVIII 

London,  August , 1817. 

Never  in  my  life  have  I been  so  struck  or  intimidated 
by  the  presence  of  beauty  as  to-night,  at  a concert  given 
by  Madame  Pasta. 

She  was  surrounded,  as  she  sang,  by  three  rows  of 
young  women,  so  beautiful — of  a beauty  so  pure  and 
heavenly — that  I felt  myself  lower  my  eyes,  out  of  respect, 
instead  of  raising  them  to  admire  and  enjoy.  This  has 
never  happened  to  me  in  any  other  land,  not  even  in  my 
beloved  Italy. 

CLXIX 

In  France  one  thing  is  absolutely  impossible  in  the 
arts,  and  that  is  “ go.”  A man  really  carried  away  would 
be  too  much  laughed  at — he  would  look  too  happy.  See 
a Venetian  recite  Buratti’s  satires. 


APPENDIX 


ON  THE  COURTS  OF  LOVE  (68) 


'“pHERE  were  Courts  of  Love  in  France  from  the  year  1150 
to  the  year  1200.  So  much  has  been  proved.  The  exist- 
ence of  these  Courts  probably  goes  back  to  a more  remote  period. 

The  ladies,  sitting  together  in  the  Courts  of  Love,  gave  out 
their  decrees  either  on  questions  of  law — for  example  : Can  love 
exist  between  married  people  ? — 

Or  on  the  particular  cases  which  lovers  submitted  to  them.1 

So  far  as  I can  picture  to  myself  the  moral  side  of  this  juris- 
prudence, it  must  have  resembled  the  Courts  of  the  Marshals 
of  France  established  for  questions  of  honour  by  Louis  XIV — 
that  is,  as  they  would  have  been,  if  only  public  opinion  had  up- 
held that  institution. 

Andre,  chaplain  to  the  King  of  France,  who  wrote  about  the 
year  1170,  mentions  the  Courts  of  Love 
of  the  ladies  of  Gascony, 

of  Ermengarde,  Viscountess  of  Narbonne  (1144-1194), 

of  Queen  Eleonore, 

of  the  Countess  of  Flanders, 

of  the  Countess  of  Champagne  (1174). 

Andre  mentions  nine  judgments  pronounced  by  the  Countess 
of  Champagne. 

He  quotes  two  judgments  pronounced  by  the  Countess  of 
Flanders. 

Jean  de  Nostradamus,  Life  of  the  Provenpal  Poets , says  (p.  15)  : — 

“ The  ‘ te?isons  ’ were  disputes  of  Love,  which  took  place 
between  poets,  both  knights  and  ladies,  arguing  together  on  some 
fair  and  sublime  question  of  love.  Where  they  could  not  agree, 

1 Andre  le  Chapelain,  Nostradamus,  Raynouard,  Crescimbeni, 
d’Ar^tin. 

332 


APPENDIX 


333 


they  sent  them,  that  they  might  get  a decision  thereon,  to  the 
illustrious  ladies  president  who  held  full  and  open  Court  of  Love 
at  Signe  and  Pierrefeu,  or  at  Romanin,  or  elsewhere,  and  they 
gave  out  decrees  thereon  which  were  called  * Lous  Arrests 
d' Amours.’’  ” 

These  are  the  names  of  some  of  the  ladies  who  presided  over 
the  Courts  of  Love  of  Pierrefeu  and  Signe  : — 

“ Stephanette,  Lady  of  Brulx,  daughter  of  the  Count  of 
Provence. 

Adalarie,  Viscountess  of  Avignon  ; 

Alalete,  Lady  of  Ongle  ; 

Hermissende,  Lady  of  Posquieres ; 

Bertrane,  Lady  of  Urgon  ; 

Mabille,  Lady  of  Yeres ; 

The  Countess  of  Dye  ; 

Rostangue,  Lady  of  Pierrefeu  ; 

Bertrane,  Lady  of  Signe  ; 

Jausserande  of  Claustral.” — (Nostradamus,  p.  27.) 

It  is  probable  that  the  same  Court  of  Love  met  sometimes  at 
the  Castle  of  Pierrefeu,  sometimes  at  that  of  Signe.  These  two 
villages  are  just  next  to  each  other,  and  situated  at  an  almost  equal 
distance  from  Toulon  and  Brignoles. 

In  his  Life  of  Bertrand  d’  Alamanon,  Nostradamus  says  : 

“ This  troubadour  was  in  love  with  Phanette  or  Estephanette 
of  Romanin,  Lady  of  the  said  place,  of  the  house  of  Gantelmes, 
who  held  in  her  time  full  and  open  Court  of  Love  in  her  castle 
of  Romanin,  near  the  town  of  Saint-Remy,  in  Provence,  aunt  of 
Laurette  of  Avignon,  of  the  house  of  Sado,  so  often  celebrated 
by  the  poet  Petrarch.” 

Under  the  heading  Laurette,  we  read  that  Laurette  de  Sade, 
celebrated  by  Petrarch,  lived  at  Avignon  about  the  year  1341  ; 
that  she  was  instructed  by  Phanette  of  Gantelmes,  her  aunt, 
Lady  of  Romanin  ; that  “ both  of  them  improvised  in  either 
kind  of  Provencal  rhythm,  and  according  to  the  account  of  the 
monk  of  the  Isles  d’Or  (69),  their  works  give  ample  witness  to 
their  learning.  ...  It  is  true  (says  the  monk)  that  Phanette  or 
Estephanette,  as  being  most  excellent  in  poetry,  had  a divine 
fury  or  inspiration,  which  fury  was  esteemed  a true  gift  from 
God.  They  were  accompanied  by  many  illustrious  and  high- 


334 


ON  LOVE 


born1  ladies  of  Provence,  who  flourished  at  that  time  at  Avignon, 
when  the  Roman  court  resided  there,  and  who  gave  themselves 
up  to  the  study  of  letters,  holding  open  Court  of  Love,  and  therein 
deciding  the  questions  of  love  which  had  been  proposed  and  sent 
to  them.  . . . 

“ Guillen  and  Pierre  Balbz  and  Loys  des  Lascaris,  Counts  of 
Ventimiglia,  of  Tende  and  of  Brigue,  persons  of  great  renown, 
being  come  at  this  time  to  visit  Pope  Innocent  VI  of  that  name, 
went  to  hear  the  definitions  and  sentences  of  love  pronounced  by 
these  ladies ; and  astonished  and  ravished  with  their  beauty  and 
learning,  they  were  taken  with  love  of  them.” 

At  the  end  of  their  “ tensons  ” the  troubadours  often  named 
the  ladies  who  were  to  pronounce  on  the  questions  in  dispute 
between  them. 

A decree  of  the  Ladies  of  Gascony  runs  : — 

“ The  Court  of  ladies,  assembled  in  Gascony,  have  laid  down, 
with  the  consent  of  the  whole  Court,  this  perpetual  constitu- 
tion, etc.,  etc.” 

The  Countess  of  Champagne  in  a decree  of  1174,  says  : — 

“ This  judgment,  that  we  have  carried  with  extreme  caution, 
is  supported  by  the  advice  of  a very  great  number  of  ladies  . . .” 
In  another  judgment  is  found  : — 

“ The  knight,  for  the  fraud  that  has  been  done  him,  denounced 
this  whole  affair  to  the  Countess  of  Champagne,  and  humbly 
begged  that  this  crime  might  be  submitted  to  the  judgment  of 
the  Countess  of  Champagne  and  the  other  ladies.” 

“ The  Countess,  having  summoned  around  her  sixty  ladies, 
gave  this  judgment,  etc.” 

1 Jehanne,  Lady  of  Baulx, 

Huguette  of  Forcarquier,  Lady  of  Trects, 

Briande  d’Agoult,  Countess  de  la  Lune, 

Mabille  de  Villeneufve,  Lady  of  Vence, 

Beatrix  d’Agoult,  Lady  of  Sault, 

Ysoarde  de  Roquefueilh,  Lady  of  Ansoys, 

Anne,  Viscountess  of  Tallard, 

Blanche  of  Flassans,  surnamed  Blankaflour, 

Doulce  of  Monestiers,  Lady  of  Clumane, 

Antonette  of  Cadenet,  Lady  of  Lambesc, 

Magdalene  of  Sallon,  Lady  of  the  said  place, 

Rixende  of  Puyvard,  Lady  of  Trans." 

(Nostradamus,  p.  217.) 


APPENDIX 


335 


Andre  le  Chapelain,  from  whom  we  derive  this  information, 
relates  that  the  Code  of  Love  had  been  published  by  a Court 
composed  of  a large  number  of  ladies  and  knights. 

Andre  has  preserved  for  us  the  petition,  which  was  addressed 
to  the  Countess  of  Champagne,  when  she  decided  the  following 
question  in  the  negative  : “ Can  real  love  exist  between  husband 
and  wife  ? ” 

But  what  was  the  penalty  that  wTas  incurred  by  disobedience 
to  the  decrees  of  the  Courts  of  Love  ? 

We  find  the  Court  of  Gascony  ordering  that  such  or  such  of 
its  judgments  should  be  observed  as  a perpetual  institution,  and 
that  those  ladies  who  did  not  obey  should  incur  the  enmity  of 
every  honourable  lady. 

Up  to  what  point  did  public  opinion  sanction  the  decrees  of 
the  Courts  of  Love  ? 

Was  there  as  much  disgrace  in  drawing  back  from  them,  as 
there  would  be  to-day  in  an  affair  dictated  by  honour  ? 

I can  find  nothing  in  Andre  or  Nostradamus  that  puts  me  in 
a position  to  solve  this  question. 

Two  troubadours,  Simon  Boria  and  Lanfranc  Cigalla,  dis- 
puted the  question  : “ Who  is  worthier  of  being  loved,  he  who 
gives  liberally,  or  he  who  gives  in  spite  of  himself  in  order  to  pass 
for  liberal  ? ” 

This  question  was  submitted  to  the  ladies  of  the  Court  of 
Pierrefeu  and  Signe  ; but  the  two  troubadours,  being  discon- 
tented with  the  verdict,  had  recourse  to  the  supreme  Court  of 
Love  of  the  ladies  of  Romanin. 1 

The  form  of  the  verdicts  is  conformable  to  that  of  the  judicial 
tribunals  of  this  period. 

Whatever  may  be  the  reader’s  opinion  as  to  the  degree  of 
importance  which  the  Courts  of  Love  occupied  in  the  attention 
of  their  contemporaries,  I beg  him  to  consider  what  to-day,  in 
1822,  are  the  subjects  of  conversation  among  the  most  consider- 
able and  richest  ladies  of  Toulon  and  Marseilles. 

Were  they  not  more  gay,  more  witty,  more  happy  in  1174  than 
in  1882  ? 

Nearly  all  the  decrees  of  the  Courts  of  Love  are  based  on  the 
provisions  of  the  Code  of  Love. 

This  Code  of  Love  is  found  complete  in  the  work  of  Andre 
le  Chapelain, 


* Nostradamus,  p,  131, 


336  ON  LOVE 

There  are  thirty-one  articles  and  here  they  are  : — 

CODE  OF  LOVE  OF  THE  TWELFTH  CENTURY 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 
V. 

The  allegation  of  marriage  is  not  a valid  plea  against  love. 
Who  can  dissemble  cannot  love. 

No  one  can  bind  himself  to  two  loves  at  once. 

Love  grows  continually  or  wanes. 

That  which  a lover  takes  from  another  by  force  has 
no  savour. 

VI. 

VII. 

Generally  the  male  does  not  love  except  in  full  puberty. 
A widowhood  of  two  years  is  prescribed  to  one  lover 
for  the  death  of  the  other. 

VIII. 

Without  over-abundant  reason  no  one  ought  to  be 
deprived  of  his  rights  in  love. 

IX. 

No  one  can  love,  unless  urged  thereto  by  the  per- 
suasion of  love  (by  the  hope  of  being  loved). 

X. 

XI. 

Love  will  be  driven  out  by  avarice. 

It  is  not  right  to  love  her  whom  you  would  be  ashamed 
to  ask  in  marriage. 

XII. 

True  love  has  no  desire  for  caresses  except  from  the 
beloved. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

Love  once  divulged  is  rarely  lasting. 

Success  too  easy  takes  away  the  charm  of  love ; 
obstacles  give  it  worth. 

XV. 

Everyone  who  loves  turns  pale  at  the  sight  of  the 
beloved. 

XVI. 

At  the  unexpected  sight  of  the  beloved  the  lover 
trembles. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXL 

XXII. 

New  love  banishes  old. 

Merit  alone  makes  man  worthy  of  love. 

Love  that  wanes  is  quickly  out  and  rarely  rekindled. 
The  lover  is  always  timid. 

Real  jealousy  always  increases  love’s  warmth. 
Suspicion,  and  the  jealousy  it  kindles,  increases  love’s 
warmth. 

XXIII. 

He  sleeps  less  and  he  eats  less  who  is  beset  with  thoughts 
of  love. 

XXIV. 

Every  act  of  the  lover  ends  in  thought  of  the  beloved. 

APPENDIX 


337 


XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 


The  true  lover  thinks  nothing  good  but  what  he 
knows  will  please  the  beloved. 

Love  can  deny  love  nothing. 

The  lover  cannot  have  satiety  of  delight  in  the 
beloved. 

The  slightest  presumption  causes  the  lover  to  suspect 
the  beloved  of  sinister  things. 

The  habit  of  too  excessive  pleasure  hinders  the  birth 
of  love. 

The  true  lover  is  occupied  with  the  image  of  the 
beloved  assiduously  and  without  interruption. 

Nothing  prevents  a woman  from  being  loved  by  two 
men,  nor  a man  by  two  w'omen.1 


1 I.  Causa  conjugii  ab  amore  non  est  excusatio  recta. 

II.  Qui  non  celat  amare  non  potest. 

III.  Nemo  duplici  potest  amore  ligari. 

IV.  Semper  amorem  minui  vel  crescere  constat. 

V.  Non  est  sapidum  quod  amans  ab  invito  sumit  amante. 

VI.  Masculus  non  solet  nisi  in  plena  pubertate  amare. 

VII.  Biennalis  viduitas  pro  amante  defuncto  superstiti  praescribitur 
amanti. 

VIII.  Nemo,  sine  rationis  excessu,  suo  debet  amore  privari. 

IX.  Amare  nemo  potest,  nisi  qui  amoris  suasione  compellitur. 

X.  Amor  semper  ab  avaritia  consuevit  domiciliis  exulare. 

XI.  Non  decet  amare  quarum  pudor  est  nuptias  affectare. 

XII.  Verus  amans  alterius  nisi  suae  coamantis  ex  affectu  non  cupit 
amplexus. 

XIII.  Amor  raro  consuevit  durare  vulgatus. 

XIV.  Facilis  perceptio  contemptibilem  reddit  amorem,  difficilis  eum 

parum  facit  haberi. 

XV.  Omnis  consuevit  amans  in  coamantis  aspectu  pallescere. 

XVI.  In  repertina  coamantis  visione,  cor  tremescit  amantis. 

XVII.  Novus  amor  veterem  compellit  abire. 

XVIII.  Probitas  sola  quemcumque  dignum  facit  amore. 

XIX.  Si  amor  minuatur,  cito  deficit  et  raro  convalescit. 

XX.  Amorosus  semper  est  timorosus. 

XXI.  Ex  vera  zelotypia  affectus  semper  crescit  amandi. 

XXII.  De  coamante  suspicione  percepta  zelus  interea  et  affectus 
, crescit  amandi. 

XXIII.  Minus  dormit  et  edit  quern  amoris  cogitatio  vexat. 

XXIV.  Quilibet  amantis  actus  in  coamantis  cogitatione  finitur, 


Z 


ON  LOVE 


338 

f 

Here  is  the  preamble  of  a judgment  given  by  a Court  of  Lov*5 

Question  : Can  true  love  exist  between  married  people  ? 

Judgment  of  the  Countess  of  Champagne  : We  pronounce  anc 
determine  by  the  tenour  of  these  presents,  that  love  canno 
extend  its  powers  over  two  married  persons  ; for  lovers  mus 
grant  everything,  mutually  and  gratuitously,  the  one  to  the  othe 
without  being  constrained  thereto  by  any  motive  of  necessity 
while  husband  and  wife  are  bound  by  duty  to  agree  the  one 
with  the  other  and  deny  each  other  in  nothing.  . . . Let  this 
judgment,  which  we  have  passed  with  extreme  caution  and  with 
the  advice  of  a great  number  of  other  ladies,  be  held  by  you  as 
the  truth,  unquestionable  and  unalterable. 

In  the  year  1174,  the  third  day  from  the  Calends  of  May,  the 
Vllth  : indiction.1 

XXV.  Verus  amans  nihil  beatum  credit,  nisi  quod  cogitat  amanti 
placere. 

XXVI.  Amor  nihil  posset  amori  denegare. 

XXVII.  Amans  coamantis  solatiis  satiari  non  potest. 

XXVIII.  Modica  praesumptio  cogit  amantem  de  coamante  suspicari 
sinistra. 

XXIX.  Non  solet  amare  quern  nimia  voluptatis  abundantia  vexat. 

XXX.  Verus  amans  assidua,  sine  intermissione,  coamantis  imagine 
detinetur. 

XXXI.  Llnam  feminam  nihil  prohibet  a duobus  amari,  et  a duabus 
mulieribus  unum.  (Fol.  103.) 

1 Utrum  inter  conjugates  amor  possit  habere  locum  ? 

Dicimus  enim  et  stabilito  tenore  firmamus  amorem  non  posse  inter 
duos  jugales  suas  extendere  vires,  nam  amantes  sibi  invicem  gratis  omnia 
largiuntur,  nullius  necessitatis  ratione  cogente ; jugales  vero  mutuis 
tenentur  ex  debito  voluntatibus  obedire  et  in  nullo  seipsos  sibi  ad  invicem 
denegare.  . . . 

Hoc  igitur  nostrum  judicium,  cum  nimia  moderatione  prolatum,  et 
aliarum  quamplurium  dominarum  consilio  roboratum,  pro  indubitabili 
vobis  sit  ac  veritate  constanti. 

Ab  anno  M.C.LXXIV,  tertio  calend.  maii,  indictione  VII.  (Fol.  56.) 

This  judgment  conforms  to  the  first  provision  of  the  Code  of 
Love  : “ Causa  conjugii  non  est  ab  amore  excusatio  recta.” 


APPENDIX 


339 


NOTE  ON  ANDRE  LE  CHAPELAIN  (70) 

Andre  Le  Chapelain  appears  to  have  written  about  the  year 
1176. 

In  the  Bibliotheque  du  Roi  may  be  found  a manuscript  (No. 
8758)  of  the  work  of  Andre,  wdiich  was  formerly  in  the  possession 
of  Baluze.  Its  first  title  is  as  follows  : “ Hie  incipiunt  capitula 
libri  de  Arte  amatoria  et  reprobatione  amoris.” 

This  title  is  followed  by  the  table  of  chapters. 

Then  we  have  the  second  title  : — 

“ Incipit  liber  de  Arte  amandi  et  de  reprobatione  amoris 
editus  et  compillatus  a magistro  Andrea,  Francorum  aulae  regias 
capellano,  ad  Galterium  amicum  suum,  cupientem  in  amoris 
exercitu  militari  : in  quo  quidem  libro,  cujusque  gradus  et 

ordinis  mulier  ab  homine  cujusque  conditionis  et  status  ad  amorem 
sapientissime  invitatur  ; et  ultimo  in  fine  ipsius  libri  de  amoris 
reprobatione  subjungitur.” 

Crescimbeni,  Lives  of  the  Provenfal  Poets , sub  voce  Percivalle 
Boria,  cites  a manuscript  in  the  library  of  Nicolo  Bargiacchi,  at 
Florence,  and  quotes  various  passages  from  it.  This  manuscript 
is  a translation  of  the  treatise  of  Andre  le  Chapelain.  The 
Accademia  della  Crusca  admitted  it  among  the  works  which 
furnished  examples  for  its  dictionary. 

There  have  been  various  editions  of  the  original  Latin.  Frid. 
Otto  Menckenius,  in  his  Miscellanea  Lipsiensia  nova , Leipsic  1751, 
Vol.  VIII,  part  I,  pp.  545  and  ff.,  mentions  a very  old  edition 
without  date  or  place  of  printing,  which  he  considers  must  belong 
to  the  first  age  of  printing  : “ Tractatus  amoris  et  de  amoris 
remedio  Andreae  cappellani  Innocentii  papae  quarti.” 

A second  edition  of  1610  bears  the  following  title  : — 

“ Erotica  seu  amatoria  Andreae  capellani  regii,  vetustissimi 
scriptoris  ad  venerandum  suum  amicum  Guualterium  scripta, 
nunquam  ante  hac  edita,  sed  saepius  a multis  desiderata  ; nunc 
tandem  fide  diversorum  MSS.  codicum  in  publicum  emissa  a 
Dethmaro  Mulhero,  Dorpmundae,  typis  Westhovianis,  anno  Una 
Caste  et  Vere  amanda.” 

A third  edition  reads : “ Tremoniae,  typis  Westhovianis,  anno 
1614.” 


340  ON  LOVE 

Andre  divides  thus  methodically  the  subjects  which  he  prc 
poses  to  discuss  : — 

1.  Quid  sit  amor  et  unde  dicatur.1 

2.  Quis  sit  effectus  amoris. 

3.  Inter  quos  possit  esse  amor. 

4.  Qualiter  amor  acquiratur,  retineatur,  augmentetur,  minua 
tur,  finiatur. 

5.  De  notitia  mutui  amoris,  et  quid  unus  amantium  agen  • 
debeat,  altero  fidem  fallente. 

Each  of  these  questions  is  discussed  in  several  paragraphs. 

Andreas  makes  the  lover  and  his  lady  speak  alternately.  The  : 
lady  raises  objections,  the  lover  tries  to  convince  her  with  reasons  i 
more  or  less  subtle.  Here  is  a passage  which  the  author  puts  into  t: 
the  mouth  of  the  lover  : — 

“ . . . Sed  si  forte  horum  sermonum  te  perturbet  obscuritas,  “ 
eorum  tibi  sententiam  indicabo  2 

Ab  antiquo  igitur  quatuor  sunt  in  amore  gradus  distincti : 

Primus,  in  spei  datione  consistit. 

Secundus,  in  osculi  exhibitione. 

Ter  tins,  in  amplexus  fruitione. 

Quartus,  in  totius  concessione  personae  finitur.” 

1 1.  What  love  is  and  whence  it  is  so-called. 

2.  What  are  the  effects  of  love  ? 

3.  Between  whom  love  can  exist. 

4.  In  what  way  love  is  won,  kept,  made  to  increase,  to  wane  or  to 

end. 

5.  The  way  to  know  if  love  is  returned,  and  what  one  of  the  lovers 

should  do  when  the  other  proves  faithless. 

2 But  lest  perchance  you  are  troubled  by  the  obscurity  of  this  dis- 
course, I shall  give  you  the  argument : — 

From  all  antiquity  there  are  four  different  degrees  of  love  : 

The  first  consists  in  giving  hope. 

The  second  in  the  offer  of  a kiss. 

The  third  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  most  intimate  caresses. 

The  fourth  in  the  surrender  of  body  and  soul. 


a-  TRANSLATORS’  NOTES 

re  i.  'pHE  Portuguese  Nun,  Marianna  Alcaforado,  was  born  of 
a distinguished  Portuguese  family  in  the  second  half  of 
the  seventeenth  century.  About  1662,  while  still  a nun,  she  fell 
e in  love  with  a French  officer,  the  Chevalier  de  Chamilly,  to  whom 
s she  addressed  her  famous  letters.  The  worthiness  of  the  object 
) of  her  passion  may  be  judged  by  the  fact  that,  on  his  return  to 
Paris,  the  Chevalier  handed  over  these  letters  to  Sublingy,  a 
lawyer,  to  be  translated  and  published.  They  appeared  in  1669, 
published  by  Barbin,  under  the  title  Lettres  Portuguaises , and  have 
since  been  often  reprinted.  Marianna  Alcaforado  died  at  the 
end  of  the  seventeenth  or  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

There  are  only  five  original  letters,  though  many  editions 
contain  the  seven  spurious  letters,  attributed  to  a “ femme  du 
monde  ” — they  are  already  in  Barbin’s  second  edition. 

There  is  an  admirable  seventeenth-century  English  translation 
of  her  letters  by  Sir  Roger  L’Estrange. 

The  passion  of  Heloi'se  for  Abelard  hardly  calls  for  commentary. 
There  is  no  clue  to  the  identity  of  Captain  de  Vesel  and  Sergeant 
de  Cento.  A note  in  Calmann-Levy’s  edition  tells  us  that,  in 
reply  to  enquiries  about  these  two  mysterious  people,  Stendhal 
said  that  he  had  forgotten  their  stories. 

2.  Justine  ou  les  Malheurs  de  la  V ertti,  by  the  famous  Marqu 
de  Sade,  was  published  in  Holland,  1791. 

3.  Cf.  Coleridge,  Love’s  Apparition  and  Evanishment : — 

. . . Genial  Hope, 

Love’s  eldest  sister. 

4.  Cf.  Chapter  VIII,  p.  35  below.  The  ideas  contained  in 
these  two  passages  are  the  germ  of  a story  written  by  Stendhal 
with  the  obvious  intention  of  illustrating  his  theories.  The  story 
— “ Ernestine  ” — is  included  in  the  Calmann-Ldvy  edition  of 
De  V Amour. 


34i 


ON  LOVE 


342 

5.  Cf.  a letter  of  Sir  John  Suckling  “ to  a Friend  to  dissuade  him  x 
from  marrying  a widow,  which  he  formerly  had  been  in  love  with  ” ; — 

“ Love  is  a natural  distemper,  a kind  of  Small  Pox  : Every  one 
either  hath  had  it  or  is  to  expect  it,  and  the  sooner  the  better.” 

6.  Leonore  : under  this  name  Stendhal  refers  to  Metilde 
Dembowski  (nee  Viscontini).  His  passion  for  the  wife  of  General 
Dembowski,  with  whom  he  became  intimate  during  his  stay  in 
Milan  (1814-1821),  forms  one  of  the  most  important  chapters  in  1 
Stendhal’s  life,  but  it  is  a little  disappointing  to  enquire  too 
deeply  into  the  object  of  this  passion.  At  any  rate,  as  far  as  one 
can  see,  the  great  qualities  which  Stendhal  discovered  in  Metilde  ; 
Dembowski  had  their  existence  rather  in  his  expert  crystallisation  - 
than  in  reality.  It  was  an  unhappy  affair.  Metilde’s  cousin  used 
her  influence  to  injure  Stendhal,  and  in  1819  she  cut  off  all  com- 
munication  with  him.  Stendhal  was  still  bemoaning  his  fate  on 
his  arrival  in  England,  1821.  There  is,  none  the  less,  something  _ 
unconvincing  in  certain  points  in  the  history  of  this  attachment ; in 
spite  of  his  sorrow,  Stendhal  seems  to  have  consoled  himself  in  the 
Westminster  Road  with“littleMissAppleby.”  It  is  worth  noticing 
that  Metilde  Dembowski  had  been  the  confidante  of  Signora 
Pietra  Grua,  his  former  mistress,  and  it  was  from  the  date  of 
Stendhal’s  discovery  of  the  latter’s  shameless  infidelity  to  himself 
and  other  lovers,  that  his  admiration  for  Metilde  seems  to  have 
started. 

7.  It  is  here  worth  turning  to  a passage  from  Baudelaire — 
which  is  given  in  the  Translators’  note  (n)  below.  Liberty  in 
love,  he  says,  consists  in  avoiding  the  kind  of  woman  dangerous  to 
oneself.  He  points  out  that  a natural  instinct  prompts  one  to 
this  spontaneous  self-preservation.  Stendhal  here  gives  a more 
exact  explanation  of  the  operation  of  this  instinctive  selection  in 
love.  Schopenhauer’s  conception  of  the  utilitarian  nature  of 
bodily  beauty  is  a more  general  application  of  the  same  idea.  The 
breasts  of  a woman  a la  Titian  are  a pledge  of  fitness  for  maternity 
— therefore  they  are  beautiful.  Stendhal  would  have  said  a 
pledge  of  fitness  for  giving  pleasure. 

8.  The  well-known  Dr.  Edwards,  in  whose  house  Stendhal 
was  introduced  to  one  side  of  English  life — and  a very  bour- 
geois side.  He  was  introduced  by  a brother  of  Dr.  Edwards,  a 


TRANSLATORS’  NOTES 


343 


■'  '•'«  an  given  to  the  peculiarly  gloomy  kind  of  debauch  of  which 
tendhal  gives  such  an  exaggerated  picture  in  his  account  of 
ngland.  See  note  31  below. 


9.  This  brings  to  mind  Blake’s  view  of  imagination  and 
otten  rags  ” of  memory. 


the 


10.  Bianca  e Faliero  ossia  il  consiglio  di  tre — opera  by  Rossini 

1819). 


11.  Cf.  Baudelaire,  Choix  de  maximes  consolantes  sur  V amour 
n Le  Corsaire  Satan  (March  3,  1846)  and  reprinted  in  (Euvres 
Posthumes,  Paris,  1908). 

“ Sans  nier  les  coups  de  foudre,  ce  qui  est  impossible — voyez 
Stendhal  . . . — il  faut  que  la  fatalite  jouit  d’une  certaine 
elasticite  qui  s’appelle  liberte  humaine.  . . . En  amour  la 
liberte  consiste  a eviter  les  categories  de  femmes  dangereuses, 
c’est-a-dire  dangereuses  pour  vous.” 

[“  Without  denying  the  possibility  of  ‘ thunderbolts,’  for  that 
is  impossible  (see  Stendhal) — one  may  yet  believe  that  fatality 
enjoys  a certain  elasticity,  called  human  liberty.  ...  In  love 
human  liberty  consists  in  avoiding  the  categories  of  dangerous 
women — that  is,  women  dangerous  for  you.”] 

12.  Paul  Louis  Courier  (1772-1825)  served  with  distinction 
as  an  officer  in  Napoleon’s  army.  He  resigned  his  commission  in 
1809,  in  order  to  devote  himself  to  literature,  and  especially  to 
the  study  of  Greek.  His  translation  of  Daphnis  and  Chloe,  from 
the  Greek  of  Longus,  is  well  known,  and  was  the  cause  of 
his  long  controversy  with  Del  Furia,  the  under-librarian  of 
the  Laurentian  Library  at  Florence,  to  which  Stendhal  here 
refers.  Courier  had  discovered  a complete  manuscript  of  this 
romance  in  the  famous  Florentine  Library.  By  mistake,  he  soiled 
with  a blot  of  ink  the  page  of  the  manuscript  containing  the  all- 
important  passage,  which  was  wanting  in  all  previously  known 
manuscripts.  Del  Furia,  jealous  of  Courier’s  discovery,  accused 
him  of  having  blotted  the  passage  on  purpose,  in  order  to 
monopolise  the  discovery.  A lively  controversy  followed,  in  which 
the  authorities  entered.  Courier  was  guilty  of  nothing  worse  than 
carelessness,  and,  needless  to  say,  got  the  better  of  his  adver- 
saries, when  it  came  to  a trial  with  the  pen. 


ON  LOVE 


344 

13.  The  Viscomte  de  Valmont  and  the  Presidente  de  Tourvel  : 
are  the  two  central  figures  in  Choderlos  de  Laclos’  Liaisons  j. 
Dangereuses  (1782). 

14.  Modern  criticism  has  made  it  uncertain  who  Dante’s  la 
Pia  really  was.  The  traditional  identification  is  now  given  up, 
but  there  seems  no  reason  to  doubt  the  historical  fact  of  the 
story. 

15.  Napoleon  crowned  himself  with  the  Iron  Crown  of  the 
old  Lombard  kings  at  Milan  in  1805. 

16.  The  reader  is  aware  by  now  that  Salviati  is  none  other 
than  Stendhal.  The  passage  refers  to  the  campaign  of  18x2,  in 
which  Stendhal  played  a prominent  part,  being  present  at  the 
burning  of  Moscow. 

17.  Don  Carlos , Tragedy  of  Schiller  (1787) ; Saint-Preux — from 
Rousseau’s  Nouvelle  Helo'ise. 

18.  Stendhal’s  first  book.  For  the  history  of  this  work,  which  | 
is  an  admirable  example  of  Stendhal’s  bold  method  of  plagiarism, 
see  the  introduction  to  the  work  in  the  complete  edition  of 
Stendhal  now  in  course  of  publication  by  Messrs.  Champion 
(Paris,  1914)  or  Lumbroso,  V ingt  jugements  inedits  sur  Henry  Beyle 
(1902),  pp.  10  and  ff. 

19.  Jacques  le  Fataliste — by  Diderot  (1773). 

20.  The  note,  as  it  stands,  in  the  French  text,  against  the 
word  “ pique,”  runs  as  follows  : — 

“ I think  the  word  is  none  too  French  in  this  sense,  but  I can 
find  no  better  substitute.  In  Italian  it  is  ‘ puntiglio,’  and  in 
English  * pique.’  ” 

21.  The  Lettres  a Sophie  were  written  by  Mirabeau  (1 749— 
1791)  during  his  imprisonment  at  Vincennes  (1777-1780).  They 
were  addressed  to  Sophie  de  Monnier  ; it  was  his  relations  with 
her  which  had  brought  him  into  prison.  They  wrere  published  in 
1792,  after  Mirabeau’s  death,  under  the  title  : Lettres  originales 
de  Mirabeau  ecrites  du  donjon  de  Vincennes. 


TRANSLATORS’  NOTES 


345 

e 22.  Catherine  Marie,  Duchesse  de  Montpensier,  was  the 
laughter  of  the  Due  de  Guise,  assassinated  in  1563.  In  1570  she 
narried  the  Due  de  Montpensier.  She  was  lame,  but  she  had 
ather  reasons  besides  his  scoffing  at  her  infirmity  for  her  undying 
■i  hatred  of  Henry  III  ; for  she  could  lay  at  his  door  the  death  of 
Pi  her  brother  Henry,  the  third  Duke.  She  died  in  1596. 
le  i 

23.  Julie  d’Etanges — the  heroine  of  Rousseau’s  Nouvelle  Heloise. 

e ! 24.  Stendhal,  we  must  remember,  is  writing  as  a staunch 

liberal  in  the  period  of  reactionwhich  followed  the  fall  of  Napoleon 
and  the  end  of  the  revolutionary  period.  Stendhal  had  been  one 
■ of  Napoleon’s  officers,  and  the  Bourbon  restoration  put  an  end 
to  his  career.  His  liberalism  and  his  pride  at  having  been  one  of 
those  who  followed  Napoleon’s  glorious  campaigns,  colour  every- 
thing he  writes  about  the  state  of  Europe  in  his  time.  In  reading 
Stendhal’s  criticisms  of  France,  England  and  Italy,  we  must  put 
ourselves  back  in  1822 — remember  that  in  France  we  have  the 
Royalist  restoration,  in  England  the  cry  for  reform  always  growing 
greater  and  beginning  to  penetrate  even  into  the  reactionary 
government  of  Lord  Liverpool  (Peel,  Canning,  Huskisson),  in 
Italy  the  rule  of  the  “ Pacha  ” (see  below,  note  29)  and  the  begin- 
ning of  Carbonarism  (of  which  Stendhal  was  himself  suspected, 
see  below,  note  27),  and  the  long  struggle  for  unity  and  in- 
I dependence. 

25.  Charles  Ferdinand,  Duke  de  Berri  (1778-1820),  married  a 
Bourbon  Princess  and  was  assassinated  by  a fanatic  enemy  of  the 
Bourbons. 

26.  Bayard.  Pierre  Bayard  (1476-1524),  the  famous  French 
knight  “ without  fear  or  reproach.” 

27.  Of  all  foreign  countries  then  to  which  Stendhal  went 
Italy  was  not  only  his  favourite,  but  also  the  one  he  knew  and 
understood  best.  He  was  pleased  in  later  years  to  discover 
Italian  blood  in  his  own  family  on  the  maternal  side.  The  Gagnon 
family,  from  which  his  mother  came,  had,  according  to  him, 
crossed  into  France  about  1650. 

He  was  in  Italy  with  little  interruption  from  1814-1821,  and 
again  from  1830-1841  as  consul  at  Civita  Vecchia,  during  which 
time  he  became  intimately  acquainted  with  the  best,  indeed  every 


346  ON  LOVE 

kind  of  Italian  society.  He  tells  us  that  fear  of  being  implicated!  - 
in  the  Carbonari  troubles  drove  him  from  Italy  in  1821. 

One  can  well  believe  that  a plain  speaker  and  daring  thinker  ■ 
like  Stendhal  would  have  been  looked  upon  by  the  Austrian  police 
with  considerable  suspicion. 

28.  Racine  and  Shakespeare.  Very  early  in  life  Stendhal 
refused  to  accept  the  conventional  literary  valuations.  Racine 
he  put  below  Corneille — Racine,  like  Voltaire,  he  says,  fills  his 
works  with  “ bavardage  eternel.”  Shakespeare  became  for  Stend- 
hal the  master  dramatist,  and  he  is  never  tired  of  the  comparison 
between  him  and  Racine.  Cf.  Rome , Naples  et  Florence  (1817), 
and  Histoire  de  la  Peinture  en  Italie  (1817).  Finally  he  published 
his  work  on  the  subject  : Racine  et  Shakespeare  par  M.  de  Stendhal 
(1823). 

29.  Stendhal  knew  Italy  and  was  writing  in  Italy  in  the  dark 
period  that  followed  the  fall  of  Napoleon.  The  “Pacha”  is, 
of  course,  the  repressive  and  reactionary  government,  whether 
that  of  the  Austrians  in  Lombardy,  of  the  Pope  in  Rome,  or  of 
the  petty  princes  in  the  minor  Italian  states.  See  above,  note  27. 

30.  Count  Almaviva — character  from  Beaumarchais’  Marriage 
de  Figaro,  first  acted  April,  1784.  The  play  was  censored  by 
Louis  XVI  and  produced  none  the  less  six  months  later.  Its 
production  is  an  event  in  the  history  of  the  French  Revolution. 
Almaviva  stands  for  the  aristocracy  and  cuts  a sad  figure  beside 
Figaro,  a poor  barber. 

Stendhal’s  Acquaintance  with  England 

31.  Baretti,  Dr.  Johnson’s  friend,  has  the  reputation  of  having 
learnt  English  better  than  any  other  foreigner.  Stendhal  might 
well  claim  a similar  distinction  for  having  acquired  in  a short  stay 
a grasp  so  singularly  comprehensive  of  England — of  English 
people  and  their  ways.  He  was  four  times  in  England — in  1817, 
1821,  1826,  and  1838 — never  for  a whole  year  in  succession,  and 
on  the  first  occasion  merely  on  a flying  trip.  But  Stendhal  had 
not  only  a great  power  of  observing  and  assimilating  ideas  ; he  was 
also  capable  of  accommodating  himself  to  association  with  the  most 
varied  types.  Stendhal  was  as  appreciative  of  Miss  Appleby — 


TRANSLATORS’  NOTES 


347 

his  little  mistress  in  the  Westminster  Road — as  of  Lord  Byron 
and  Shelley  : he  was  at  home  in  the  family  circle  of  the  Edwards 
and  the  Clarkes.  From  the  first  he  was  sensible  of  the  immense 
value  of  his  friendship  with  the  lawyer,  Sutton  Sharpe  (1797- 
1843).  Sharpe  was  one  of  those  Englishmen  who  seem  made 
for  the  admiration  of  foreigners — possessing  all  the  Englishman’s 
sense  and  unaffected  dignity  and  none  of  his  morbid  reserve  or 
insularity.  Porson,  Opie,  Flaxman,  Stothard  were  familiar 
figures  in  the  house  of  Sharpe’s  father,  and  Sharpe  and  his  charm- 
ing sister  continued  to  be  the  centre  of  a large  and  intelligent 
circle.  In  1826  Sharpe  took  Stendhal  with  him  on  circuit. 
Stendhal  was  often  present  in  court  and  learnt  from  his 
friend,  who  in  1841  became  Q.C.,  to  admire  the  real  character, 
so  rarely  appreciated  abroad,  of  English  justice.  He  took  this 
opportunity  of  visiting  also  Manchester,  York,  and  the  Lake 
district.  Likewise  to  Sharpe  he  owed  the  privilege  of  meeting 
Hook,  the  famous  wit  and  famous  bibber,  at  the  Athenaeum. 
He  was  present  even  at  one  of  Almack’s  balls — the  most  select 
entertainment  of  that  time. 

With  an  acquaintance  with  England  at  once  so  varied,  so  full 
and  yet  so  short,  as  regards  direct  intercourse  with  the  country 
and  people,  it  is  rather  natural  that  Stendhal  was  wary  of  sub- 
scribing to  any  one  very  settled  conception  of  the  English.  He 
felt  the  incongruity  of  their  character.  At  one  time  he  called 
them  “ la  nation  la  plus  civilisee  et  la  plus  puissante  du  monde 
entier  ” — the  most  civilised  and  powerful  people  on  the  face  of 
the  earth  ; at  another  they  were  only  “ les  premiers  hommes 
pour  le  steam-engine  ” ; and  then,  he  merely  felt  a sorrowful 
affection  for  them — as  for  a people  who  just  missed  getting  the 
profit  of  their  good  qualities  by  shutting  their  eyes  to  their  bad. 

As  for  Stendhal’s  knowledge  of  English  literature — of  that 
the  foundations  were  laid  early  in  life.  His  enthusiasm  for 
Shakespeare  was  a very  early  passion  (cf.  Translators’  note  28). 
As  years  went  on,  his  acquaintance  with  English  thought  and 
English  literature  became  steadily  wider.  Significant  is  his 
familiarity  with  Bentham,  whose  views  were  congenial  to 
Stendhal  : Stendhal  quotes  him  more  than  once.  Hobbes 
he  was  ready  to  class  with  Condillac,  Helvetius,  Cabanis  and 
Destutt  de  Tracy,  as  one  of  the  philosophers  most  congenial  and 
useful  to  his  mind.  For  the  rest,  the  notes  and  quotations  in 
this  book  leave  no  doubt  of  the  extent  of  his  English  reading — 


ON  LOVE 


348 

they  give  one  a poorer  opinion  of  his  purely  linguistic  capacities  ; 4 
Stendhal’s  own  English  is  often  most  comical.  For  a very’ com- 
plete consideration  of  his  connexion  with  England  see  Stendhal  7 
et  V Angleterre,  by  Doris  Gunnell  (Paris,  1909).  Cf.  also  Chuquet’s  • 
Stendhal-Beyle  (Paris,  1902),  Chap.  IX,  pp.  178  and  ff. 

32.  Of  the  three  Englishmen  referred  to  here,  James  Beattie 
(i735-i8o3),  the  author  of  The  Minstrel  (published  1771-1774), 
and  Richard  Watson  (1737-1816),  Bishop  of  Llandaff  (1782),  a . 
distinguished  chemist  and  a man  of  liberal  political  views,  will  : 
both  be  familiar  to  readers  of  Boswell.  The  third,  John  Chetwode  . 
Eustace  (1762  ?— 1 815)  was  a friend  of  Burke  and  a Roman  - 
Catholic,  who  seems  to  have  given  some  trouble  to  the  Catholic 
authorities  in  England  and  Ireland.  His  Tour  through  Italy,  to  . 
which  Stendhal  refers,  was  published  in  1813. 

33.  The  Divorce  Bill,  introduced  in  1820  into  the  House  of 
Lords  by  George  IV’s  ministers,  to  annul  his  marriage  with  Queen 
Caroline,  but  abandoned  on  account  of  its  unpopularity  both  in 
Parliament  and  in  the  country  generally. 

34.  The  Whiteboys  were  a secret  society,  which  originated  in 
Ireland  about  1760  and  continued  spasmodically  till  the  end  of 
the  century.  In  1821  it  reappeared  and  gave  great  trouble  to 
the  authorities  ; in  1823  the  society  adopted  another  name. 
The  yeomanry  was  embodied  in  Ulster  in  September  1796,  and  was 
mainly  composed  of  Orangemen  and  Protestants.  The  body  was 
instrumental  in  disarming  Ulster  and  in  suppressing  the  rebellion  of 
1798 — not,  it  has  been  maintained,  without  unnecessary  cruelty. 

35.  Sir  Benjamin  Bloomfield  (1786-1846),  a distinguished 
soldier,  ultimately  did  get  his  peerage  in  1825.  In  1822  he  had 
resigned  his  office  of  receiver  of  the  duchy  of  Cornwall,  having 
lost  the  King’s  confidence  after  many  years  of  favour. 

Stendhal’s  Acquaintance  with  Spain 

36.  Stendhal’s  personal  knowledge  of  Spain  w^as  less  extensive 
than  that  of  Italy,  England  and  Germany.  He  was  early  inter- 
ested in  the  country  and  its  literature.  In  1808  at  Richemont  he 
was  reading  a Histoire  de  la  guerre  de  la  succession  d'Espagne, 
and  the  same  year  speaks  of  his  plan  of  going  to  Spain  to  study  the 


TRANSLATORS’  NOTES 


349 

!;es  language  of  Cervantes  and  Calderon.  In  1810  he  actually  took 
ocut Spanish  lessons  and  the  next  year  applied  from  Germany  for  an 
. 'official  appointment  in  Spain.  In  1837  he  made  his  way  as  far  as 
et'jj  Barcelona. 

Stendhal’s  Acquaintance  with  Germany 

37.  In  1806  Stendhal  returned  to  Paris  from  Marseilles  whither 
' he  had  followed  the  actress  Melanie  Guilbert  and  taken  up  a 

T’  commercial  employment  in  order  to  support  himself  at  her  side. 
; He  now  again  put  himself  under  the  protection  of  Daru,  and 
:J  followed  him  into  Germany,  though  at  first  without  any  fixed 
e title.  He  was  not  at  Jena,  as  he  pretends  (being  still  in  Paris  the 
:i  7th  October),  but  on  the  27th  of  the  month  he  witnessed  Napo- 
' leon’s  triumphal  entry  into  Berlin.  Two  days  later  he  was  nomi- 
nated by  Daru  to  the  post  of  assistant  commissaire  des  guerres. 

Stendhal  arrived  in  Brunswick  in  1806  to  take  up  his 
. official  duties.  Although  his  time  was  occupied  with  a con- 
siderable amount  of  business,  he  found  leisure  also  for  visit- 
ing the  country  at  ease.  In  1807  he  went  as  far  as 
Hamburg.  His  observations  on  the  country  and  people  are 
occurring  continually  in  his  works,  particularly  in  his  letters  and 
in  his  Voyage  a Brunswick  (in  Napoleon , ed.  de  Mitty,  Paris, 
1897),  pp.  92-125.  In  1808  he  left  Brunswick,  but  soon  returned 
with  Daru  to  Germany.  This  time  he  was  employed  at  Strasbourg 
— whence  he  passed  to  Ingolstadt,  Landshut,  etc.,  etc.  Facts  prove 
that  he  was  not  at  the  battle  of  Wagram,  as  he  says  in  his  Life  of 
Napoleon.  He  was  at  the  time  at  Vienna,  where  he  managed  to 
remain  for  the  Le  Deum  sung  in  honour  of  the  Emperor  Francis 
II  after  the  evacuation  by  the  French.  He  returned  in  1810, 
after  the  peace  of  Schonnbrunn,  to  Paris.  It  was  during  his  stay 
in  Brunswick  that  Stendhal  made  the  acquaintance  of  Baron  von 
Strombeck,  for  whom  he  always  preserved  a warm  affection. 
He  was  a frequent  guest  at  the  house  of  von  Strombeck  and  a 
great  admirer  of  his  sister-in-law,  Phillippine  von  Billow — who 
died  Abbess  of  Steterburg — la  celeste  Phillippine.  Baron  von 
Strombeck  is  referred  to  in  this  work  as  M.  de  Mermann.  See 
generally  Chuquet,  Stendhal- Beyle,  Chap.  V. 

38.  Triumph  of  the  Cross.  In  Arthur  Schuig’s  sprightly, 
but  inaccurate,  German  edition  of  De  V Amour — Uber  die  Liebe 
(Jena,  191 1) — occurs  this  note  : — 

“ Stendhal  names  the  piece  Le  Lriomphe  de  la  Croix , but  must 


ON  LOVE 


35° 

mean  either  Das  Kruez  an  der  Ostsee  (1806),  or  Martin  Luther  oder 
die  IV eihe  der  Kraft  (1807) — both  tragedies  by  Zacharias  Werner.” 

39.  The  Provencal  story  in  this  chapter,  and  the  Arabic 
anecdotes  in  the  next,  were  translated  for  Stendhal  by  his  friend 
Claude  Fauriel  (1772-1806) — “ the  only  savant  in  Paris  who  is 
not  a pedant,”  he  calls  him  in  a letter  written  in  1829  ( Cor - 
respondance  de  Stendhal , Paris,  Charles  Brosse,  1908,  Vol.  II,  p. 
516).  A letter  of  1822  (Vol.  II,  p.  24.7)  thanks  M.  Fauriel  for  his 
translations.  “ If  I were  not  so  old,”  he  writes,  “ I should  learn 
Arabic,  so  charmed  am  I to  find  something  at  last  that  is  not  a 
mere  academic  copy  of  the  antique.  . . . My  little  ideological 
treatise  on  Love  will  now  have  some  variety.  The  reader  will  be 
carried  beyond  the  circle  of  European  ideas.”  Saint-Beuve  relates 
that  he  was  present  when  Fauriel  showed  Stendhal,  then  engaged 
on  his  De  V Amour,  an  Arab  story  which  he  had  translated.  Stend- 
hal seized  on  it,  and  Fauriel  was  only  able  to  recover  his  story  by 
promising  two  more  like  it  in  exchange.  M.  Fauriel  is  referred  to 
p.  188,  note  2,  above. 

40.  The  reference  is  to  a piece  by  Scribe  (1791-1861). 

41.  Stendhal  had  no  first-hand  knowledge  of  America. 

42.  Stendhal  was  writing  before  Whitman  and  Whistler  ; yet 
he  had  read  Poe. 

43.  The  entire  material  for  these  three  chapters,  and  to  a very 
great  extent  their  language  too,  is  taken  straight  from  an  article 
in  the  Edinburgh  Review — January  1810 — by  Thomas  Broadbent. 
See  for  a full  comparison  of  the  English  and  French,  Doris 
Gunnell — Stendhal  et  V Angleterre,  Appendix  B. 

Stendhal  has  not  only  adapted  the  ideas — he  has  to  a great 
extent  translated  the  words  of  Thomas  Broadbent.  He  has 
changed  the  order  of  ideas  here  and  there — not  the  ideas  themselves 
— and  in  some  cases  he  has  enlarged  their  application.  Where 
he  has  translated  the  English  word  for  word,  it  has  often  been 
possible  in  this  translation  to  restore  the  original  English,  which 
Stendhal  borrowed  and  turned  into  French.  Where  we  have 
done  this,  we  have  printed  the  words,  which  belong  to  Thomas 
Broadbent,  in  italics. 


TRANSLATORS’  NOTES 


"■Ur 


However,  as  Stendhal  often  introduced  slight,  but  important, 
tanges  of  language,  we  also  give  below,  as  an  example  of  his 
lethods,  longer  passages  chosen  from  the  article  in  the  Edinburgh 
leviezv,  to  compare  with  the  corresponding  passages  literally 
ranslated  by  us  from  Stendhal. 

These  are  the  passages  : — 


[,p. 
'Ms 
am 
■t  a 

id 

be 

ici 

7 

:o 


\ 225,  1.  2 : 

“ As  if  women  were  more  quick  and  men  more  judicious,  as  if 
vomen  were  more  remarkable  for  delicacy  of  expression  and  men 
for  stronger  powers  of  attention.” 

P.  228,  1.  9 : 

“ Knowledge,  where  it  produces  any  bad  effects  at  all,  does  as 
much  mischief  to  one  sex  as  to  the  other.  . . . Vanity  and  con- 
ceit we  shall  of  course  witness  in  men  and  women,  as  long  as  the 
world  endures.  . . . The  best  way  to  make  it  more  tolerable  is 
to  give  it  as  high  and  dignified  an  object  as  possible.” 

P.  229,  1.  21  : 

“ Women  have,  of  course,  all  ignorant  men  for  enemies  to  their 
instruction,  who  being  bound  (as  they  think)  in  point  of  sex  to 
know  more,  are  not  well  pleased  in  point  of  fact  to  know  less.” 


P.  230,  1.  24: 

“ The  same  desire  of  pleasing,  etc.  . . . We  are  quite  aston- 
ished in  hearing  men  converse  on  such  subjects  to  find  them 
attributing  such  beautiful  effects  to  ignorance.” 

P.  232,  1.  31  : 

“ We  do  not  wish  a lady  to  write  books  any  more  than  we  wish 
her  to  dance  at  the  opera.” 

P.  237,  1.  13  : 

“ A merely  accomplished  woman  cannot  infuse  her  tastes  into 
the  minds  of  her  sons.  . . . 

“ By  having  gained  information  a mother  may  inspire  her  sons 
with  valuable  tastes,  which  may  abide  by  them  through  life  and 
carry  him  up  to  all  the  sublimities  of  knowledge.” 

P.  237,  1.  27  : 

“ Mankind  are  much  happier  for  the  discovery  of  barometers, 
thermometers,  steam-engines  and  all  the  innumerable  inventions 
in  the  arts  and  the  sciences.  . . . The  same  observation  is  true 
of  such  works  as  those  of  Dryden,  Pope,  Milton  and  Shakespeare.” 


ON  LOVE 


352 

Stendhal’s  habit  of  quoting  without  acknowledgment  fron 
all  kinds  of  writings  is  so  curious,  that  it  demands  a word  to  itself 
His  wholesale  method  of  plagiarism  has  been  established  in  othei 
works  beside  the  present  one  ; almost  the  whole  of  his  first  worl  : 
— La  Vie  de  Haydn  (1814) — is  stolen  property.  See  above, 
note  18.  Goethe  was  amused  to  find  his  own  experiences 
transferred  to  the  credit  of  the  author  of  Rome , Naples  ei 
Florence ! > 

If  there  is  any  commentary  necessary  on  this  literary  piracy — .. 
it  is  to  be  found  in  a note  by  Stendhal  {vide  above,  Chapter  „ 
XXXVII,  p.  132)  on  a passage  where,  for  once,  he  actually 
acknowledges  a thought  from  La  Rochefoucauld  : — 

“ The  reader  will  have  recognised,  without  my  marking  it 
each  time,  several  other  thoughts  of  celebrated  writers.  It  is 
history  which  I am  attempting  to  write,  and  such  thoughts  are 
the  facts.” 

44.  The  monitorial  system  ( Enseignement  mutuel ) was  intro- 
duced into  France  soon  after  the  Bourbon  Restoration  : but  it 
was  not,  like  our  monitorial  system,  designed  with  a view-  primarily 
to  the  maintenance  of  discipline,  but  rather  to  supplying  the  want 
of  schools  and  masters  and  remedying  the  official  indifference  to 
popular  education,  which  then  existed  in  France.  As  such,  it  was 
warmly  espoused  by  the  liberals,  and  as  warmly  opposed  by  the 
reactionaries.  The  monitors,  it  wras  thought,  could  hand  on  to 
the  younger  pupils  the  knovdedge  they  had  already  received  ; 
after  the  Revolution  of  1830,  when  no  longer  the  object  of  political 
controversy,  the  system  gave  way  to  more  practical  and  efficient 
methods  of  public  instruction. 

45.  Porlier  (Don  Juan  Diaz),  born  in  1783,  was  publicly  hanged 
in  1815  as  the  result  of  a conspiracy  against  Ferdinand  VII  of 
Spain.  After  having  been  one  of  the  most  active  and  bravest 
supporters  of  Ferdinand’s  cause  in  the  effort  to  re-establish  his 
throne  and  the  national  honour,  he  now  sacrificed  his  life 
to  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  set  up  a constitutional  govern- 
ment. 

Antonio  Quiroga  (born  1784),  also  after  having  distinguished 
himself  in  the  national  struggle  against  Napoleon,  was  tried  for 
complicity  in  the  conspiracy,  after  the  fall  of  Porlier.  After  a 
series  of  adventures,  in  which  he  was  more  lucky  than  Riego,  his 


TRANSLATORS'  NOTES 


353 

subaltern,  to  whom  he  owed  so  much,  he  again  distinguished 
" 'aim self,  after  a temporary  withdrawal  from  active  service  in 
1822,  by  the  stout  opposition  he  offered  to  the  French  invasion 
of  1823.  His  efforts,  however,  were  of  no  avail  and  he  escaped 
to  England,  and  thence  made  his  way  to  South  America.  Some 
years  later  he  returned  to  Spain,  was  nominated  Captain  General 
of  Grenada,  and  died  in  1841. 

Rafael  del  Riego  (born  1785),  after  serving  against  the  French, 
first  became  prominent  in  connexion  with  the  effort  to 
restore  the  constitution  which  Ferdinand  had  abolished  in  1812. 
He  was  elected  by  his  troops  second  in  command  to  Quiroga, 
whom  he  himself  proposed  as  their  leader.  This  rising  was  a 
failure  and  Riego  was  exiled  to  Oviedo,  his  birthplace.  After 
being  repeatedly  recalled  and  re-exiled,  he  ended  by  being  one 
of  the  first  victims  of  Ferdinand’s  restoration  in  1823,  and  was 
dragged  to  the  place  of  execution  at  the  back  of  a donkey,  amid 
the  outrages  of  the  mob. 


t 46.  Father  Paolo  Sarpi  (1552-1623),  the  famous  historian  of 
„ the  Council  of  Trent,  a Servite  monk,  and  the  ecclesiastical 
. adviser  of  the  Venetian  Government,  at  a time  when  it  seemed 
, not  impossible  that  Venice  would  break  away,  like  Northern 
Europe,  from  the  Roman  Catholic  Church. 

47.  Destutt  de  Tracy  (1754-1836)  was,  according  to  Stend- 
hal, our  only  philosopher.  It  is  on  Tracy,  one  of  the 
Ideologists,  that  Stendhal,  one  might  say,  modelled  his  philo- 
sophic attitude.  Tracy’s  Ideologie  (1801),  he  says,  gave  him 
“ milles  germes  de  pensees  nouvelles  ” — gave  him  also  his  worship 
of  logic.  He  was  equally  impressed  by  the  Traite  de  la  V olonte 
(1815).  Cf.  Picavet’s  Sorbonne  Thesis  (Paris,  1891)  Les  Ideo- 
logues, pp.  489-92,  in  which  he  speaks  of  Stendhal  as  “ a successor 
and  a defender,  mutatis  mutandis,  of  the  eighteenth-century 
‘ Ideologues.’  ” 


48.  Giovanni  Luigi  Fiescho  (1523-1547),  a great  Genoese 
noble,  formed  a conspiracy  in  1547  against  the  all-powerful 
Admiral  of  the  Republic,  Andrea  Doria.  The  state  fleet  in  the 
harbour  was  to  be  seized,  but  in  attempting  this  Fiescho  was 
drowned,  and  the  conspiracy  collapsed, 


354 


ON  LOVE 


49.  Henri  Gregoire  (1750-1831),  one  of  the  most  origin; 
fearless  and  sincere  of  the  Revolutionary  leaders,  was  the  coi  • 
stitutional  Bishop  of  Blois,  who  refused  to  lay  down  his  episcop  : 
office  under  the  Terror,  and  when  the  Reign  of  Terror  was  ove 
took  an  active  part  in  restoring  Religion  and  the  Church.  H 
resigned  his  bishopric  in  1801.  Napoleon  made  him  a coun  : 
but  he  was  always  hostile  to  the  Empire.  He  was  a staunc 
Gallican,  and  never  forgave  Napoleon  his  concordat  with  th 
Papacy.  He  was  naturally  hated  and  feared  by  the  Royalists  a 
the  Restoration,  but  he  remained  popular  with  the  people,  an> 
was  elected  a member  of  the  lower  chamber  in  1819,  though  h 
was  prevented  by  the  Government  from  sitting. 


50.  La  Genie  du  Christianisme , by  Chateaubriand  (1802). 


51.  See  note  47. 

52.  See  note  37. 

53.  See  note  37. 


I ::: 

H: 


54.  Johannes  von  Muller — the  German  historian  (1752-1809). 


55.  La  Trappe — the  headquarters  (near  Mortagna)  of  a monas- 
tic body,  the  Trappists,  a branch  of  the  Cistercian  order.  The 
word  is  used  for  all  Trappist  monasteries. 

56.  Samuel  Bernard  (1651-1739),  son  of  the  painter  and  en- 
graver of  the  same  name,  was  a man  of  immense  wealth  and  the 
foremost  French  financier  of  his  day.  He  was  born  a Protestant, 
not,  as  has  been  thought,  a Jew,  but  became  a Catholic  after  the 
Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes  (1685).  He  was  ennobled  and 
became  the  Comte  de  Coubert  (1725). 


57.  Joseph  Louis  Lagrange  (1736-1813),  a celebrated  mathe- 
matician and  scientist. 


58.  Hazlitt,  in  a note  to  his  essay  on  Self-Love  and  Benevo- 
lence, remarked  on  Stendhal’s  absurdly  exaggerated  praise  of 
Helvetius.  After  quoting  this  passage,  he  adds  : “ My  friend 
Mr,  Beyle  here  lays  too  much  stress  on  a borrowed  verbal  fallacy.” 


TRANSLATORS’  NOTES 


355 


: i Hobbes  and  MandeviUe,  he  says,  had  long  before  stated,  and 
Butler  answered,  this  fallacy,  which  not  unfrequently  vitiates 
: Stendhal’s  psychological  views. 

H 59.  Francois  Guillaume  Ducray-Duminil  (1761  -1819),  the 
in  author  of  numerous  sentimental  and  popular  novels. 

11  60.  The  Argonautica  of  Apollonius  of  Rhodes  (222-181  b.c.). 

3 61.  Jean  Francois  de  la  Harpe  (born  1739)  is  frequently  men- 

tioned by  Stendhal  in  this  hostile  spirit.  After  winning  con- 
siderable notoriety,  without  very  much  merit,  La  Harpe  in  1786 
became  professor  of  literature  at  the  newly  founded  Lycee. 
Flaving  started  as  a Voltairian  philosopher,  and  still  apparently 
favourable  to  the  Revolution,  he  was  none  the  less  arrested  in 
1794  as  a suspect  and  put  into  prison.  There  he  was  converted 
from  his  former  Voltairian  principles  to  Roman  Catholicism. 
He  died  in  1803. 

62.  Notices  sur  Mme.  de  la  Fayette , M me.  et  Mile.  Deshoulieres , 
lues  a VAcademie  fratifaise , Paris,  1822. 

63.  Pierre  Jean  de  Beranger  (born  1780)  : The  bold  patriotic 
songs,  which  had  made  Beranger’s  name,  brought  him  in  1828, 
for  the  second  time, into  prison.  He  refused  office  after  the  revolu- 
tion (1830),  for  the  principles  of  which  he  had  already  suffered  ; 
he  died  in  1848. 

64.  La  Gazza  Ladra,  an  opera  by  Rossini. 

65.  Antoine  Marie,  Comte  de  Lavalette  (1769-1830)  was  one 
of  Napoleon’s  generals.  After  the  Bourbon  restoration  of  1815 
he  was  condemned  to  death,  but  escaped,  chiefly  owing  to  his 
wife’s  help. 

66.  Alessandro,  Conte  Verri,  the  contemporary  of  Stendhal 
and  a distinguished  litterateur  (1741-1816). 

67.  Montenotte  (April,  1796),  and  Rivoli  (January,  1797),  two 
victories  in  Bonaparte’s  Italian  campaign. 


ON  LOVE 


356 

68.  The  existence  of  these  Courts  of  Love  has  been  denied  by 
many  modern  historians.  For  a brief  statement  of  the  arguments 
against  their  historical  existence  the  English  reader  may  be 
referred  to  Chaytor,  The  Troubadours  (in  the  Cambridge  Manuals 
of  Science  and  Literature,  1912),  pp.  19-21.  But  while  the  direct 
evidence  for  their  existence  is  very  flimsy,  the  direct  evidence 
against  them  is  no  less  so. 

69.  The  monk  of  the  Isles  d’Or,  on  whose  manuscript  Nostra- 
damus professed  to  rely,  is  now  considered  to  be  a purely  fictitious 
person,  an  anagram  on  a friend’s  name. 

70.  The  date  of  Andre  le  Chapelain’s  treatise  is  a disputed 
point.  Stendhal  gives  its  date  as  1176;  Reynouard  and  others, 
1170.  Others  again  have  placed  it  as  late  as  the  fourteenth 
century,  though  this  has  been  proved  impossible,  since  thirteenth- 
century  writers  refer  to  the  book.  The  probability  is  that  it  was 
written  at  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  or  end  of  the  twelfth 
century — there  is  no  evidence  to  fix  the  date  with  precision. 
For  a full  discussion  of  the  question  see  the  preface  to  the  best 
modern  edition  of  the  work — Andre ae  Capellani  . . . De  Amore 
(recensuit  E.  Trojel),  1892. 

71.  Cf.  Montesquieu,  Lettres  Persanes,  passim,  and  especially 
Letter  48  : “ . . . . Our  foreign  demeanour  no  longer  gives 
offence.  We  even  profit  by  people’s  surprise  at  finding  us  quite 
polite.  Frenchmen  cannot  imagine  that  Persia  produces  men.” 


RESTORED  BY 

MARKING  & REPAIR  STAFF 
DATE:  ,1987 


OUKE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARIES 


